


Coven

by Naidhe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood Kink, Blood Magic, Dark, Multi, Rape/Non-con Elements, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2019-06-08 03:47:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 22
Words: 132,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15234645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naidhe/pseuds/Naidhe
Summary: “The problem here, professor Dumbledore, is that you keep wondering what my position on the board is. I started off as your pawn, then at some point I became a useful bishop; but suddenly you see yourself wondering if I might not just be the black queen.” Hermione looked at him then, and smiled softly, “And what you don’t realize is that we’re not playing chess anymore.”





	1. Book

**Author's Note:**

> Summary: "The problem here, professor Dumbledore, is that you keep wondering what my position on the board is. I started off as your pawn, then at some point I became a useful bishop; but suddenly you see yourself wondering if I might not just be the black queen." Hermione looked at him then, and smiled, "And what you don't realize is that we're not playing chess anymore."
> 
> Disclaimer: None of the characters in the Harry Potter universe belong to me. Any who are not mentioned in any of the books, do. I make absolutely no profit out of this (which is sad, because I really should be working right now)
> 
> Warnings:
> 
> - No Hermione/Pansy Femslash (as main couple. Some of their interactions might come close to being defined as such). They are just, both, the main characters.
> 
> \- There will be (both heterosexual and) homosexual pairings, or in general homoerotic sexual innuendo. Might include mentions of open relationships.
> 
> \- This work will contain non-consensual relations and mentions of rape, violence, torture, gore-ish details, and murder.
> 
> \- This work will explore the darkness within each of its characters. I do not approve of many of their actions. Anything written here is from their point of view, and therefore not necessarily my own opinion. It's not my intention to romanticize or justify any of their actions.
> 
> Setting: This starts a few days after the beginning of the sixth book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Edit: 13.01.2019 – Minor grammar corrections

**Coven. Ch. 1: Book**

" _The Coven is to the witch as the wand is to any wizard: the means to bring out her true power to its culmination._ "

Hermione frowned and closed the book, checking the cover once more. In golden, almost faded letters, stood the words "The Coven", and nothing else. She had assumed the name of the author had been eroded with time, as it was obviously an old tome, but now she started to suspect it might have never been there at all.

As far as she knew, covens were a muggle, misguided concept. They had never existed, and the only purpose the word had ever served had been to condemn women –generally muggle– to die burning at the pyre. She had been thrilled to find a reference to them in a book in the Hogwarts library, and had assumed it would be a proper analysis of muggle and wizarding history, possibly related to the Salem Witch Trials. Merlin knew it was something purebloods loved to use against anyone promoting muggle-wizarding relations.

However, this old volume seemed to be some sort of  _serious_  description of a coven, which as far as she knew, was utter bullshit. If something such as covens existed, they would have been mentioned, at least, in history class. Not to mention, the missing author's name on the cover… Not a book to be taken seriously. It must be somebody's private property, having ended in a shelf without the approval of Madame Pince, by some sort of mistake.

She opened it again at random, not even checking the page, and read another sentence.

" _It is through blood that the Coven is truly tied, it being the link between flesh and soul, the true connection between the cores of the sisters."_

Hermione's brows went up as she read further. Was it saying that covens were made by true, biological sisters? Well, who cared – whatever the book implied, it clearly did not belong in the history section. She took it and headed for the entrance, intending to bring it to Madam Pince's attention either to be reclassified or properly disposed of.

As she turned around, a sharp sob drew her attention, and she was faced with the unwelcome mug of Pansy Parkinson. She had just come out from behind some shelves, rather dishevelled, quickly making her way without looking, headed straight for Hermione.

"Hey!" she drew her attention in order to avoid a collision. Parkinson halted in surprise, her eyes widening in horror. Upon realizing it was Hermione, her expression quickly morphed into a familiar sneer, and she went on her way. However, Hermione's harsh gasp made her falter, and her question stalled her. "What happened to you?" she asked, too surprised to stop herself from speaking.

Parkinson blushed furiously, and snapped harshly "It's none of your fucking business,  _mudblood_."

The slur stung, as always, but Hermione could see she was merely lashing out, mortified at being seen in  _such a state_ , specially by her. "Who did this to you?" Hermione insisted. Now that they were facing each other, she was certain someone had struck Parkison –quite hard– on the face.

As Parkinson seemed about to snap again – probably say something even more hurtful, perhaps in hopes it would deter her questioning – Malfoy came out from behind the same obscuring shelves, and stopped at the sight of them. After a heart-beat of awkward, three-party silence, he glared at them both of and kept on, as if he had not just been caught by Hermione in an obviously incriminating situation.

"Did  _Malfoy_  hit you?" The thought was preposterous. Parkinson had always followed him around in adoration – was their relationship not good? Hermione's mind drifted to her mother's texts on abused women, trying to find an analogous with Parkinson's situation.

Parkinson, however, had gone even redder. While Hermione was momentarily distracted comparing behavioural patterns, the girl drew her wand and pointed it at her. The speed and precision of her movements were not something she would have thought the rather lazy Slytherin girl capable of. Hermione let out a strangled " _eeep_ " and quickly ducked to dodge the blasting curse that had been aimed at her head.

In a second, the furious, hellish shriek coming straight from the depths of Madame Pince's throat made them both halt – Parkinson in the middle of throwing some other curse at her, herself with her wand already in hand in order to retaliate. They turned around at the same time, faced the angry woman, scraps of pages from the books that had been behind Hermione dancing all around them.

Parkinson had been caught mid-spell, and so she did not even bother to feign innocence. But Hermione had already started to look up to the woman hopefully, truthfully scared about almost  _losing_  her head all of a sudden, when she was completely interrupted.

"What were you thinking!" she shrieked again. "Fighting like this! You're not at an age where you'll cast a silly  _expelliarmus_ , huh?  _This_  is real duelling we're talking about!" she said, pointing at the gaping hole Parkinson had left right above her head. "And in the  _Library_!" she waved at the mess all around them, voice shriller, clearly considering that the worst amongst their infraction. "I'm extremely disappointed," she said, fixing her gaze on Hermione, "I didn't expect such actions from any of you two."

Right now, the both of you will repair all the books you damaged and settle them impeccably in their rightful places! I do  _not_  care if you miss dinner, I do  _not_  care if it takes you the whole night, and I definitely do  _not_  care whether you think it's unfair!" she finished, thunderously.

"But I didn't do anything!" Hermione protested – she had been the  _victim_. Madame Pince took one look at Parkinson's very red cheekbone, which was certain to turn a beautiful violet come morning, and seemed unconvinced. She looked at Hermione warningly and, after a final glare, just turned around and stormed off.

Parkinson smirked smugly at her, and Hermione just frowned and pointed at her own cheek, raising an eyebrow. That made her glare once more. They shared a couple minutes of indignant, angry silence, before any of them took action.

"We just better get this whole mess fixed soon, I don't feel like starving tonight." Hermione suggested, opting to be the adult in the situation.

She turned to the books and looked at the scene, troubled. Where to start? The little bits and pieces were all mixed up. What was a good spell for that? A sorting spell, then a  _reparo_? Would that be enough? What if Parkinson had damaged some of them beyond repair?

"Why should  _I_  clean this, like some ordinary house-elf?" Parkinson complained, looking down on the paper scraps as if they had personally offended her.

"Well, firstly, because  _you_  are the reason we're stuck here; having made all this mess while trying to  _kill_  me" she emphasized, already irked at her attitude. She just got an eye-roll. "And, secondly, because if you don't help me, I certainly have some nice blackmail material to use against you."

Parkinson gasped indignantly, bringing and extended palm to the centre of her chest, "You wouldn't!" she exclaimed, but clearly cared enough to be fearful of the possibility. She dramatically huffed, and got down to look at their problem herself, grimacing as if it physically hurt her to succumb to such a plebeian task.

After half an hour of frustrating results they discovered that the only way to reconstruct something so very small and so very well mixed, was to treat it as a whole – as a  _fluid_. The right spell got them a nice pile of the millions of pieces. After that, Parkinson actually made herself  _useful_  by suggesting a spell to separate different densities; parchment always turned out slightly different when made, and therefore each page should be separable if they casted with enough precision. Hermione reluctantly admitted it was a good idea, and her to the separation, while she tried to repair the pages one by one.

Setting all the pages back into the right order, into the right book, and with the right cover, would require a few hours of actual reading, at which Parkinson audibly groaned.

"Granger, what do you think this is?" she asked, after three hours had passed between purely professional comments related to their work, and almost no disrespectful insults. Hermione turned around and looked at the ornate and elongated crystal. It looked like some kind of ornamental element, roughly shaped like a wand, with a multitude of engraved details and small, pointy adorns. She reached for it, wondering if it could have fallen from a chandelier, and if they were expected to repair that too. But, as her hand settled upon Parkinson's, the other girl gasped and moved away so fast she roughly cut both of them with the crystal piece, its weird shape scraping against her fingers, making blood drops fly all around.

"What the hell?" Hermione yelled, after a high-pitched cry, bringing the bleeding wound in her finger to her lips. Parkinson was doing the exact same thing, hateful glare back in place.

"Don't touch me, you filth!" she venomously yelled, eyes wide open and looking horrified.

Hermione flushed red with rage at that, and spat back, "I may be filth, Parkinson, but at least no man could ever dream to backhand me like that and live to tell the tale!" She knew she would hurt her more going after her pride.

Parkinson snarled and showed her teeth, going after her wand again, but this time Hermione was already pointing hers at her, breathing heavily, and that made her stop, impotent.

"You think yourself so much  _better_  than me," she growled, frustrations accumulated through years of unfairness suddenly piling up, "but what are  _you_  good for? You'll be used as coin, Parkinson. Your father will trade you to get himself some good business deal, and then? You'll belong to  _another_  man," she told her, and enjoyed the way the girl flinched. Her chest felt warm, filled with rage. "Whatever you learn here at Hogwarts, whatever you think, or feel, or want; it doesn't matter. It won't  _ever_  matter!" She enjoyed the following words with a sweet kind of cruelty she did not know she owned. "One day you'll be packed away to some man – a  _violent_  one, maybe? Twice your age? Didn't that happen to Farley?" She had heard the Slytherin girls lamenting the prefect's luck. She had felt sympathy for her, but now she only wanted to  _hurt_  Parkinson. Hurt her, hurt her,  _hurt_  her. "Who cares – you will have to smile, and spread your legs, and  _breed_  like the cow you are." She realized she was shaking with rage, unable to control herself. "So don't fuck with me, Parkinson. Smile, be pretty, and shut your trap; like you're supposed to do."

Parkinson just stared at her, so still she might actually be seeing through her, and then suddenly stood, disregarding her pointed wand, and left the room with an indignant stomping, the glimmer of tears in her eyes.

* * *

Hermione woke up suddenly to the sound of her alarm spell, briefly disoriented. She usually woke with the morning light in a much more pleasant and gradual way, but, she remembered, she had gone to bed quite late the night before.

She groggily sat up and drew the curtains, receiving a surprised look from Parvati, who was already taking her bag and heading for breakfast.

"Hermione, it's not like you to wake up so late" she commented, worried.

Hermione smiled softly – out of all her roommates, Parvati was the best to wake up to. They were not the best of friends, but five years of companionship had developed into at least some mutual respect, very different from the shared contempt during their first years.

"Parkinson." She groaned, as everything slowly came back to her. "Blew up a book-shelf trying to blow up my head, and actually got me detention along with her," she complained, standing up and heading for the bathroom. She had better hurry, or she would have to skip breakfast, along with the previous night's dinner.

Parvati gave her a sympathetic look, and offered, "Just take your time here. I'll grab you something and you can eat it right before Transfigurations."

"Thanks, Parvati. But I actually had to give up dinner yesterday, and if I don't eat something substantial I might not make it to lunch. I'll just head down without a shower, my hair be damned."

Parvati furrowed her brows at the mention of no dinner, being absolutely unable to skip a meal. In her position, she would have passed by the kitchens and begged the elves for something, even if it meant going to bed even later.

Parvati left after assuring her she would save her something just in case, and Hermione tried not to look at her impossible bed hair too much while in the bathroom. Lavender would certainly snicker all day long; but Harry and Ron would not even notice, and at least now Parvati had her back. She could count on her to scold Lavender for being a superficial, immature bint.

She went back into the room to dress, catching sight of the two empty beds by the window. Sally-Anne and Mandy had not come back that year. She had only ever maintained a cordial relationship with her other roommates, but the knowledge that some people were pulling their kids out of school now that they knew Voldemort was back worried her.

She could finally head down for breakfast – heavenly, ambrosial breakfast – her stomach rumbling audibly. She was  _starving_. She turned to pick her books, and  _The Book_  fell from her bag. She grimaced. After being harshly scolded by Madame Pince, she had completely forgotten about the thing, and collected it along with her stuff. Meaning, she had taken it from the library without appropriately checking it out… She would have to smuggle it back in. Well, she should wait a few days, until she stopped feeling the hawk-like gaze of that woman crawling down her neck.

Breakfast was a quiet, fast affair. Harry and Ron were still cross with her for actually  _worrying_  about them blindly following some handwritten instructions in a book. Like,  _handwritten_! They did not even know who the book belonged to! It was crazy. Oh, but did they listen? No. It must just mean she was jealous they were doing better than her, as Ronald had kindly suggested. She snorted, alone in her bench, everyone already heading for class. They were not doing better than her, she rationalized;  _someone else_  was doing better than her. They just  _copied_. Well, monkeys could copy too, and that did not make them smarter than her.

She grumbled grouchily all the way to Transfigurations, deciding she would sit as far away from them as humanly possible. They did not get to be mad at her –  _she_  was mad at them, the irresponsible dolts.

McGonagall was almost spelling the doors shut when she rushed in, raising a thin eyebrow at her lateness, and perhaps showing a slight hint of worry. It was, after all, unusual for her to not be sitting first-row twenty minutes before the class started.

At her late entry, a few students turned around curiously, Parkinson amongst them. She sneered, all crunched-up pug-face, and caressed her own soft, straight, black hair; a clear mocking gesture. Hermione just rolled her eyes at her, not caring much what she thought. Still, she could not help but notice that her face was neither coloured nor swollen. She did not think, for a second, that Parkinson had gone to Madame Pomfrey's for help – she was way too proud. So, was she  _that good_  with healing spells? Or was it makeup and a glamour? That last option, she thought, ought to fall al lot better within Parkinson's skill set. Still, it was awfully well done, she had to admit.

She sat down at the back, next to one of the few remaining Hufflepuff girls, who she recalled was named Garcia. She glanced at her, curious. She was focused in some sort of arithmantic calculations, scribbling in a notebook – her rather short, dark, curly hair bouncing sharply with her quick movements – despite the Transfigurations class having clearly started.

Professor McGonagall had conjured mirrors for everyone, starting them on the practice of human transfiguration. It was an incredibly complex subject, and Hermione had only just barely managed to change the colour of one of her eyebrows the previous week.

She focused on the lecture, trying to ignore how her new benchmate was disregarding the professor. She gave the transfiguration a first try and, surprisingly, succeeded with ease. She blinked, her two eyebrows now a bright shade of red – red was easy to spot even if she only managed a slight tinting – despite not having practiced even once since her last try. She was so stunned she almost forgot to feel proud.

However, most surprising of all, were Professor McGonagall's words.

"Miss Parkinson!" she exclaimed, drawing attention of the whole class. "This is perfect work," she continued, trying to sound less surprised and more praising, as she had not quite managed with her initial outburst, "Ten points to Slytherin. You shall move on to trying to change your hair colour now."

Hermione frowned and completely stopped her practice.  _Parkinson_  had gotten it too? She could not remember having ever seen her get a good mark in Transfigurations, and had assumed she was only following Malfoy blindly into the class – she was certainly untalented. Still, she had almost beaten her to mastering the most complex Transfiguration spell she had ever performed. No wonder Professor McGonagall had almost shrieked in surprise.

To be honest, Parkinson herself looked the most surprised of all, staring at the mirror as if she had not even heard the Gryffindor Head of House actually awarding a Slytherin ten points. Nott had to shake her and repeat Professor McGonagall's instructions. He, too, looked completely dumbfounded; the most readable expression Hermione had ever seen in his usually impassive visage. Close to her, she heard someone say it must have been a fluke.

You did not just perform such complex spells by  _fluke_.

By the end of the class, both her and Parkinson had managed to change colour and overall texture of their hair, to the absolute amazement of their professor. She looked bemused, even, at Hermione's success; so she could only imagine what she was feeling about Parkinson.

Next to her, Garcia had actually stopped her scribbling – which looked nonsensical to her – and succeeded in changing the colour of her eyebrows by a considerable amount. That seemed to be what Professor McGonagall expected of anyone, at most, during that class. She looked so relieved that she actually pretended not to notice what the other girl had been working on.

* * *

Pansy sat next to Theo, again, in Charms that afternoon. He was still looking at her like she might suddenly lose the effect of a Polyjuice potion and become someone else. She was sure that would have actually put him at ease.

To be honest, she did not quite understand what had happened that morning. Her cheek still hurt badly, even if she had managed to mask it to perfection, and she had trouble focusing. She had tried extra hard that morning – Hey, it might help distract herself from the pain, right? – but that surely could not be reason enough to explain her success.

She had tried truly hard in Transfigurations once, during her first years, before realizing and later on accepting she had no talent for it. It was fine, really. She was good at Potions and Care of Magical Creatures – even if she had not taken it for the NEWT level classes. It was not what was expected of a proper pureblood young lady – and had only taken McGonagall's subject because she needed to take at least five. At least one more than Millie, or it would be too humiliating. Also,  _Draco_  was taking it.

At Charms, she was usually better, but non-verbal spells just gave her a headache. Also, seeing Granger succeed time and time again before her was mortifying. She held the hope that, someday, she would be discovered to be an abandoned pureblood bastard and everything would fall back into place.

Next to her, Theodore managed the non-verbal summoning charm – mostly; his feather approached him slowly and erratically – and looked quite satisfied. She frowned and tried to focus again, feeling unusually rested after having exerted herself so harshly in Transfigurations that morning. She intensely pronounced the spell in her head and moved her wand carefully, pushing her magic out.

She yelped. Her feather actually accelerated dramatically and rushed forward, straight into her face. Luckily, it was light, and it harmlessly crushed itself against her forehead without damage.

The yelp drew, once again, attention from the whole class. Theodore stared, so white he looked like he might faint; which she would have found hilarious had she not been scared shitless herself. What in Merlin's name was going on?

She was  _not_  that good, and she knew it.

Behind her, Draco was also staring, looking rather sullen. Well,  _that_  she did find satisfactory. Yes, she had always been  _simpering_  around him – he  _did_  like it – but she was enraged at having been hit in such a manner. A gentleman did not strike a lady, no matter what; and Pansy was a lady.

Granger could say all she wanted, and while some of it had hit a bit too close to home – the remarks about her father, she could have done without – there was no way she would ever let any husband of hers  _beat_  her. Blaise's mother had managed to escape a marriage unscathed seven times, and she would manage once, if necessary.

Flitwick awarded her points again, and gave some advice on controlling the intensity of the spell. On the last row, Granger seemed to have succeeded without a hitch – of course – and she considered the oddity of being congratulated  _before_  the little know-it-all. Pansy was a proud woman, but she was not stupid. Granger received recognition later because she was favouring the last row of the class as of late, which hid her from the professors' view.

She turned around and noticed Saint Potter and the Weasel seemed to be ignoring her again – it happened about once per year, more or less. She knew because it was generally the best time of the year to mess with Granger. She surely felt self-confident enough to tell Pansy she was letting her father walk all over her, but she seemed to be doing no better. How easy, to see the faults in others! After all, it was true that Granger had no  _breed_ , but at least the woman was supposed to be  _smart_. Certainly, she should be able to notice she could do better than those two, even if it had to be among those of her own class.

She shuddered slightly at remembering their contact, skin to skin, the previous night. How frightening, she had thought, that touching one of  _them_  would feel so weirdly  _normal_. She had been startled at that soft, warm contact. She looked down at her hand, her finger slightly sore after her very rudimentary healing spell – which had worked better than expected, actually – and wondered at her own reaction. Her mother had always told her  _they_  were rough to the touch, much as their manners were, and cold like the Manor's stones in winter. She frowned at that thought. Well, her mother also believed you could not successfully brew potions while on  _that time of the month_ , so…

She looked up to Granger again, thoughtfully. She was sitting next to some Hufflepuff, another mudblood, whose name she certainly had never bothered to learn. The girl was not even pretending to follow the lesson. In fact, Granger was glaring at her, as if burning with the desire to chastise her conduct. Pansy sniggered; how very much like her.

"Pansy," Theo called her attention, "how on Merlin's name did you manage to make the movement so smooth?" he asked, looking rather desperate. Pansy frowned, partly because it was the first time  _ever_  he had asked her for advice – on something unrelated to fashion – and partly because she actually had no idea.

"It just did," she shrugged. "I just focused intensely, that's all. Kind of pushed my magic out."

Theo frowned, looking unconvinced, and kept on trying. He would probably get it right with just a bit more practice. Her easy success, though, frustrated him.

* * *

Hermione threw herself onto her bed, having had the weirdest day. She just could not believe  _Parkinson_  had gotten so many spells right before herself. Not that the girl was the dead last of the class, but she was definitely average in most lessons. That had been frustrating. After all, the only thing she had going for her in the wizarding world was her obvious talent; it was only that, she could brandish in order to defend her right to be there.

Lavender entered the room, just barely glancing in her direction, and headed for the bathroom. Hermione followed her movement distractedly, still replaying the events of her classes. She remembered how Parkinson's feather had bolted speedily, as if she had somehow been given an extra burst for the day. She snorted at the thought. Magic did not work that way.

"Coven?" Lavender asked a while later, curiously looking at the book. Hermione started at that, having completely forgotten about her. "Why are you reading that? Covens are, like, the silliest old tales."

"What? You mean, they exist?" Hermione exclaimed, sitting up. Lavender gave her a look that clearly insulted her mental health, and so she amended, "No, I mean, I  _know_  they don't.

But, are they a legend in the wizarding world too?"

"Of course! Like, what all grandmas scare kids with. Course, it's just a lie, like when they say muggles will come to steal your teeth if you don't brush them."

"They say  _what_?" Hermione cried out, indignantly. No wonder wizards were so very prejudiced! Lavender just rolled her eyes and swung her hand around, as if dismissing her concerns. Hermione fumed. Her roommate correctly identified her expression of rightful indignation and quickly escaped into the Common Room.

She laid back down and stared at the wooden mattress base frame above her, which had always remained unoccupied. The work that needed to be done in order to change the wizarding world's view on muggles and muggleborns was just appalling in its immensity.

Still, she forced herself to drop the topic and go back to what Lavender had said. Covens were apparently wizarding folklore too; which was extremely curious. After all, every element of muggle folklore she had ever come around, had an origin in a real magical entity. This was the first time she was coming across something that was legend in both worlds. How very interesting! Where could it have its origin? She would have to investigate it!

Her first instinct was to stand and go tell Harry and Ron – even when they most likely would have just pretended to be listening while she went on and on – but quickly remembered they were at Quidditch practice. The whole Qudditch thing was incredibly annoying. Not only had Ron gotten completely mad at her, for her involvement in confunding Cormac, but he was also snapping at her too often, as of late.

Whatever was causing Ron's bad mood – probably jealousy again; he never dealt well with Harry's success – her insistence they stopped using the damned second-hand Potions book had not helped.

Suddenly feeling lonely, she took her wand and dealt with the lack of company in her usual fashion. Even if it felt quite silly, it did help her.

" _Avis,_ " she whispered softly, waved her wand around precisely, and smiled as the birds started coming out of thin air one after the other. As she reached seven, and then ten, she smiled at her success – her previous record was six at once – though it quickly turned into a frown as more and more birds appeared near the tip of wand. She had not given the charm enough push to create that many! That might leave her completely spent!

Incessant chirping filled the room as some thirty to forty tiny, yellow birds flew around her happily, the sheer amount of them overwhelming. She panicked at the display of such chaotic movement, noise  _everywhere_ , and she hurried to yell " _evanesco!_ " The sudden silence was so deafening it startled her. She stopped herself in time – she had been ready to cast again; her subconscious knowing she should not be able to vanish so many at once. Rationally, though, if she had conjured them all at once in the first place, it  _was_  to be expected.

She frowned, confused. She knew she should not have been able to do that. With frequent usage of magic came a rather instinctual knowledge of one's capabilities. She stared at her wand, slowly recovering her breath. What the hell was going on?

She was not  _that_  good, and she knew it.

* * *

Whatever the hell was going on kept going on, for at least a week. Hermione reached her room every afternoon and, when she had a moment to herself, cast the bird conjuring spell again. She put her all into it every time, very consciously keeping all variables the same, as she just  _knew_  there was something going on. Her magic was overflowing, and she had started to notice it in every class. What was more curious in all of that, it had just started suddenly, one day. Had she had some sort of awakening? She had never seen any reference to a sudden increase of magical prowess – and she had checked the library extensively during the past week – in the level of  _days_.

Another very curious effect was the fact that, while she had managed to cast between thirty to forty birds on her first try, the following day she had counted thirty-one, followed by twenty-nine, twenty-five, twenty-one, nineteen and fifteen. In the passage of one week, she had lost about half of that weird new push she had. She could not help but wonder if there truly was something wrong with her. Was that sort of magic spike  _normal_?

She had been musing about that all day, and when Charms class came around, she had to stifle a surprised gasp when Flitwick began teaching them the ' _avis'_  charm. Thankfully, he had not decided to teach it the prior week! That would have been completely disastrous. While all teachers knew Hermione prepared ahead for all classes, she had a feeling that conjuring about forty birds on her first official try would draw way too much attention. Whatever was wrong with her, it was clearly passing; better to not mention it. If it was a weird occurrence, people like Malfoy might take the chance to accuse her of something crazy, like stealing magic from "true" wizards.

The previous night she had managed fifteen at her maximum effort, so she would most likely get something around twelve. It might be wise to try and control herself in order to produce two or three. Anything else might be suspicious.

She focused. Now that her total available magical power kept on changing, her control was slipping. Very carefully she repeated the familiar movements and, as she raised her head, she saw five birds floating around. She frowned. Had she miscalculated again? She should be getting the hang of it, after a week of guessing at her current power level.

"Hey, hey," Garcia said next to her, "two of them are mine, you know?" she pointed out. She seemed offended that Hermione has considered them all hers.

"Oh!" she managed, more relieved than anything else. "I didn't think you would bother trying," she excused herself, and too late realized she had said something quite rude.

Garcia raised one dark eyebrow. Her brown eyes shone bright, slight smirk on her lips. "Now, why would you think so?" she drawled in a mocking way that reminded her of Snape. She seemed to find her comment amusing.

Hermione blushed, embarrassed, but knowing herself to be in the right. "Well – To be honest, for a Hufflepuff, you don't seem very  _hard-working_."

Hey, the girl  _had_  asked.

Garcia had the nerve to actually scoff at that. She slapped a hand on her chest in a dry thump, dramatically opening her eyes. "Are you implying I'm not a good, sweet, hard-working Huffly-Puff?" she laughed. "Of course I work hard, Minnie, just – only when I  _care_  about the subject." She shrugged, unapologetic.

"Did you just call me  _Minnie_?" she exclaimed hotly. She could not believe the gall of the girl, who she actually considered a stranger.

Whatever response she was going to give was interrupted by the loud chirping of a flock of seven or eight birds flying around Pansy Parkinson. Garcia let out a loud whistle, "Parkinson's on fire lately" she commented conversationally, and then went back to her unintelligible arithmancy.

Well, she was right, Hermione had to admit.

Parkinson turned around and their gazes met. She was the one who had been caught staring, rather intensely, but for some reason Parkinson was the one who was  _white_  – she grimaced and quickly turned back to look down at her desk.

Why look so  _anxious_? She had conjured more birds than Hermione, shouldn't she be gloating? Even if she had been repressing her magic, her "normal state" maximum had been six, which was actually less than…

And then it hit her.

Parkinson  _was_  on fire. What she had been doing since  _exactly_  a week before had not been  _normal_. Transfigurations, Charms, Defence… Those three subjects were definitely not Parkinson's forte, and yet she had been excelling at them. Actually, now that she thought about it, she herself had also managed very easily to change her hair colour in that first Transfiguration class, right after Parkinson.

She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. Whatever was wrong with her, it was wrong with Parkinson too.

* * *

Pansy flicked her wand impatiently, and the feather hovered slightly on her bed before falling once again, having barely moved. She swallowed, holding back the tears that threatened to spill. It was going away. Whatever had been  _blessing_  her lately, that huge magic spike, was slowly decaying, and would probably end up disappearing.

She brushed the tears away with the back of her hand. When everyone else realized her newly achieved prowess was gone, it would be  _humiliating_.

It was one thing to spend all her life being a rather average witch – she could compensate for that with her fashion sense and her class – but to excel academically for one week and then go back to average? That would be absolutely mortifying. Oh, she could already see the sneer in Draco's face, the quiet contempt in Theo's! Surely, they would assume she had been  _cheating_.

She could not survive that. Not after having been demeaned so harshly by Draco barely a week before. She had to do something to get her magic back. But, how? She could only think of one solution, and it entailed the dreadful prospect of visiting the library. After carefully applying some glamours to hide her tears, which did not come as easily as they had the last time, she headed there.

If there was anything – forbidden or not – that would get her her skill back, she would find it.

Having said that, blindly searching for some sort of magic enhancing drug was certainly difficult. She dropped her head heavily on one of the numerous, useless books she had some across and sighed. She was not smart enough to understand all those arithmantical formulas, or the complexity of Magical Theory. She needed a bookworm friend, someone like Granger – she got the chills at the mere thought – who she could use to find information for her. She wished she had predicted that need during her first year; now it was too late to be nice to the know-it-alls she usually mocked.

Speaking of the Devil, that  _was_  Granger perusing the Magical Theory section, doubtlessly understanding everything she found in there. She snorted inelegantly – there was no one around who mattered – and followed her with her eyes. She was focused on the books, opening and quickly checking them with some spell that, she realized, must be searching for key words or some such. Damn, that must be useful!

Her gaze fell back to the table in which she had been sitting – there were at least fifteen open books on that one – and she was overtaken by curiosity. What was she reading about, perfect prefect Miss Granger? She stood and quietly made her way there, conscious she was just finding a silly excuse to stall researching about her impossible problem. She looked down at the girl's old, used bag – which could not have been pretty even when new – not without contempt, and judged her heavily on the cheap quills and parchment she was using.

She glanced at the open books, noticing there were a few words magically underlined. That must be the spell she had seen at work. Damn, how she wished she knew that one. However, her wishfulness quickly morphed into surprise, and then into incredulity.

_Magical enhancement, magic spike, magic rush, magical fluctuation, fluctuating magic, magic decay, magic potentiation, increasing magic, …_

Her heartrate seemed to slow as it dawned on her. Granger was usually brilliant, and so no one had noticed quite so clearly; but McGonagall had seemed surprised at her performance too, the very first day it had all started. And, that research topic clearly left no space for doubt.

She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. Whatever was wrong with her, it was wrong with Granger too.


	2. Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last Edit: 13.01.2019 – Minor grammar corrections

**Coven. Ch. 2: Blood**

Pansy closed her eyes and brought a hand to her temple, massaging it in slow circles. How anyone could understand all that theoretical gibberish, she just could not conceive. She let the book slide down her lap, looking at the fire burning in the common room. It was always cold in the dungeons, and both the heat and the sight were welcome.

Millicent went past her couch on her way out to Care of Magical Creatures, the lucky girl. Large and unfeminine as she was, her parents had seen no damage in letting her take that elective for the NEWT level. Well, it was not like Pansy would have changed their positions; Millicent was a nice girl, but Merlin, she was  _not_ pretty.

Her gaze returned to the cover of her book – well, Granger's library book, if she were being honest – and she groaned before opening it again and trying to read a few more lines. She wondered if it was purposely written in a convoluted way, as if to teach people like her to read according to their intelligence. What did  _adumbrate_  even mean? Surely these people wrote while randomly skimming the dictionary.

The soft sound of someone clearing their throat right next to her drew her attention. She raised her gaze and it fell upon an uncomfortable-looking Theodore.

"Err –" he started rather awkwardly, "Pansy. Are you – are you alright?" he asked, in a rare display of ineloquence. Pansy frowned at the question, not exactly knowing what he meant. Theodore fidgeted and, after vacillating for a moment, decided on sitting next to her, possibly to increase their privacy. "You've not quite been yourself, these past few days."

Pansy resisted the urge to bite her nails. It was a tell-tale he would surely pick up on, and definitely not a ladylike gesture. "What do you mean?" she asked, concealing her agitation, trying to sound nonchalant.

Theo raised an eyebrow and pointed at the book on her lap with a sharp head gesture. Well, perhaps  _Essence and Balance of Theoretical Magic_  was not her usual reading material, Pansy admitted internally – but still…

"Just acquiring some background knowledge," she defended weakly. "Thought it might be useful for Charms."

Theo gave her an incredulous look. "Pansy, I've known you since you were three. There's so much amiss in what you just said, that I'm decidedly tempted to call the Aurors on usurpation of identity." He paused, and then resumed in a much softer tone. "You've been doing very well in class, lately" he commented, "but these last few days…"

Pansy closed her eyes painfully. Almost two weeks had passed since the day of the first  _miracle_ , and her professors were starting to look at her like the world had finally returned to normality. Her magic was, finally, back to average.

"And now you're reading Magical Theory and, frankly, I'm starting to worry." Theodore went on, surprising Pansy.

It was true they had known each other since they were very young, just as they had known many other pureblood children of their generation; but she would never have said they were especially close. In fact, she did not think she had ever maintained a conversation with Theo that did not revolve around something practical: what would be in the Potions test, where in Merlin's name was Goyle's owl this time, how did you correctly grind asphodel root?

She looked at him, truly looked at him, from the top of his black, straight hair to his rather pointy chin; passing through his very grey eyes. He seemed honest. Sure, Slytherins generally knew how to fake that, but Theodore had never bothered approaching others much, and certainly had never been seen showing concern quite so openly. She was inclined to believe that, for some reason, he  _was_  worried about her.

She frowned. Could Theo's father be considering a possible engagement? That would certainly explain why he suddenly felt inclined to show such gentlemanly attention. She supposed that would not be so bad. Theodore was quite attractive, even if a bit thin; and she honestly could not picture him hitting his wife.

He had started to twitch and fidget under her scrutiny, and she thought she ought to throw him a lifeline. "I'm fine, Theo," she said, kindly. "I was just trying to improve my academic results. My parents have been pressuring me lately." She lied swiftly, with an ease brought on by practice.

He did not look convinced. "Are you sure? I mean…" he hesitated. She guessed the real question was coming now. "Draco's been quite  _withdrawn_ , as of late –"

Pansy almost scoffed at the euphemism.

"This has  _nothing_  to do with Draco," she cut him quickly, rather harshly, and then tried to soften her tone. "I just wanted to try doing this for myself." And that was actually true. Who cared about Draco, when she could be onto the secret to becoming an incredible witch? She would find someone else to marry, eventually. She hoped.

Theodore nodded carefully and then just pulled his own book out of his bag and settled right there, beside her, to do his own reading. Pansy stared at him, rather touched by his abnormal behaviour, before deciding she really needed to use her time to read.

* * *

Hermione paired with Garcia, again, in Defence. However, given the rather guilty look Harry was giving her, she assumed the boys would go back to alternating pairing with her at some point in the near future.

" _Minnie_ , you're on your way to becoming my next best friend, at this rate," she said, her dark, short hair curlier than usual. Hermione fixed her with a glare that could have killed a basilisk, and was spectacularly ignored.

"You seem to be needing one," she replied coldly, irked at the use of the annoying nickname, having taken notice of how she usually sat alone.

Garcia just laughed loudly at that, and nodded. "Charity's not taking even a single class with me this year!" she complained, "And Hannah and Susan are already a pack deal. Not that they like me very much, anyway" she added, almost as an afterthought. Hermione could sympathize with that. Both with not being liked by her roommates, and with not liking her very much.

Professor Snape came around to check on the pairings and, just when she feared she might pair her with some Slytherin to cause her a bit of customary humiliation, he stopped short at the sight of her partner. He scowled. Garcia noticed and smiled – actually  _fucking_  smiled! – at him, and cheerfully bid him a good morning. The man grimaced and just turned around, uncharacteristically silent.

"How did you do that?" she exclaimed, careful of not being overheard by him. Nobody was so obviously unconcerned by Professor's Snape glaring, and lived to see the dawn of another day.

"Do what?" she asked, playing innocent. Hermione glared again, but figured that if Professor Snape's had not worked, hers did not have much of a chance. Indeed, it just made her laugh, but she ended up answering. "I think he just didn't expect to have to see me again," she shrugged, and elaborated, "I  _really_  suck at Potions. I didn't pass to N.E.W.T. level, and he knows it."

Hermione supposed Snape must not be very happy at seeing Neville once more either; as he must have borne with the melted cauldrons of the previous year only thanks to the knowledge that the boy would not pass his O.W.L.S.

They started to practice non-verbal duelling as instructed, taking turns attacking and blocking, and Hermione noticed with no little amount of satisfaction that her partner was actually keeping up with her. Her magic was back to almost normality, and she had to truly focus to keep her  _protego_  intense enough. Garcia seemed to have a particular gift with non-verbal spells. How challenging, for once, to have to struggle to keep up!

Behind Harry and Ron, who had not yet managed to produce an acceptable stunning spell and were audibly being ridiculed by their professor – Harry already flushing with rage – Parkinson and Bulstrode were visibly struggling. By the expression on her face, Hermione could deduce that her magic was back to normal too, which seemed to frustrate her.

She frowned when she heard Harry's predictable outburst. Professor Snape just smiled smugly before assigning detention on the day of the first Gryffindor Quidditch match. Well, that had been an obvious bait. Harry needed to learn how to control all that new anger, most of which focused on the man in front of him, because it was clearly doing harm. She hoped the promised lessons with Professor Dumbledore would convince him he was not being ignored, and that he did not need to shoulder the fate of the whole wizarding world alone. Maybe that would calm him down. For the moment, though, she should expect a few days of intense complaining.

She watched as her friend bolted out of the room. It irked her, how obviously pleased Snape looked. He relished in deducting some points while taunting Ron. She wondered if  _anyone_  would ever listen to her sensible advice. She was frankly tired of being the voice of reason – if only Harry would stop giving Snape what he wanted…

She returned her focus to the room, and her eyes met Ron's, who noticed and gave her a withering look. She blinked a couple of times. What on Earth had she done this time? She was only looking as Harry left. Did he expect her to stupidly jump on his defence in front of Professor Snape?

"What's Ginger's problem now?" Garcia asked, approaching her. Hermione shrugged in response, determined to keep out of the whole issue. She had enough worries to add Ron's moodiness into the mess.

After class she headed once more to the library, but without the urgency of the previous week. It seemed she was magically stable once more, but she still worried. She had not found a single reference to a similar phenomenon; just mentions of accidental magic in children, and magical decay as a result of aging. Therefore, what was happening was weird and, worse even, it was happening to  _two_  people at the same time.

She feared it could have something to do with them being at the library late at night that eventful Wednesday. After all, the anomaly had manifested in both of them the very next morning. It could not be a coincidence. However, how a single hex and some book fixing had caused a sudden magic spike, she could not explain.

Hermione had explored a few lines of reasoning, but had reached no conclusion as to what could have been the trigger. However, when at first she had focused on the evolution of her magic through the days – tried to find a hormonal or emotional pattern behind it – now she realized she had to focus on the  _connection_  between herself and Parkinson. It must have been something in their location: a book, a spell… Something that had happened while they were together.

She was relieved at that prospect. If it had been something external, the chances of it happening again diminished greatly. It also implied there was nothing wrong with  _her_ , which had been her main cause of concern. She was glad she had not ended up in the infirmary; she had no time to get sick: Voldemort was back, Ronald was being an arsehole, Harry's absurd obsession with anything Malfoy was at its peak – maybe only slightly surpassed by his hatred for all things Snape – and she feared he might not be focusing on his secret lessons with Dumbledore.

Still considering how to best deal with all of those open issues, she went toward the section of the Library she and Parkinson had fixed two weeks before. She wanted to see if anything there could have caused their issue – perhaps another misplaced book, like the one that was still sitting on her nightstand.

She did not have high hopes, but she knew she would not be able to rest at ease until she checked. What she had definitely not expected, though, was to run into  _her_  again.

"Parkinson," she said, stopping short. The words exchanged in their previous conversation came flooding to her mind.

"Granger," she drawled, as if bored, leaning against the wall. "Figured you'd come back here, sooner or later. I knew you'd wonder if it had something to do with the place."

"So, you noticed!" she exclaimed, surprised. Parkinson had never struck her as especially observant. The other girl sneered, as if telling her ' _but of course_.' Hermione was already irked. "Did you also come looking for the origin of our problem?" she asked her.

Parkinson furrowed her brow, her nose scrunching to look more pug-like than usual. "Problem?" she asked, nonplussed, "What do you mean,  _problem_?"

Now it was Hermione's turn to be confused. Had they come there for the same reason, or not?

"Aren't you talking about this – this  _weird_  magic outburst we've been having the past two weeks?" she asked carefully. Was she blabbering? Should she keep quiet instead?

"Well, of course, what else would I talk to  _you_  about?" Parkinson scoffed, "What I cannot  _possibly_  fathom is why you'd call it a problem!" she exclaimed, honest confusion interweaved with derision in her voice.

Hermione stared, agape. "We just had an  _inexplicable_  magical outburst! I've searched every nook and cranny in this place and I haven't been able to find a single reference to it. Nothing even remotely similar. There could be something seriously  _wrong_  with us! We – we could be suffering from some sort of  _disease_!" her hands moved around frantically, emphatically. "Or from a hormonal breakdown – it could result in an even heavier destabilization of our magic!" she ended, raising her voice with every sentence, trying to convey the urgency of the situation.

"So…" she started, and Hermione waited for understanding to dawn on the mindless bint, "You mean you don't know  _what_  this is?" she asked, pointing to each of them and back. Hermione nodded insistently. "Circe! You've no idea how to get it back, do you?" she complained, anxious.

Hermione had to convince herself she had actually heard her correctly. Surely, not even Parkinson could be that daft.

"Get it  _back_?" she asked in a whisper so rough it drew the other girl's attention. "Get it  _back_?!" she repeated in a higher pitch. "Have you completely lost your mind? You foolish, witless, imbecilic girl!" she almost screeched, not registering she was sounding like Professor Snape. And very unlike herself. "We could be in  _danger_!" she emphasized, waving her hands dramatically.

"Untwist your knickers, Granger. Cheap as they must be, they'll get wrinkly beyond repair." Parkinson clacked her tongue, looking smug. "You say we could be in danger? Well, I say we could be on the brink of the discovery of our  _lives_ ," she reasoned, eyes shining with greed. "Who's to say we can't get our extra spark back?"

Hermione just stared, dumfounded. What the hell was she suggesting? They had no idea what was going on there. They could be sick. They could be  _cursed_. The could be  _dying_!

"Well, whatever, Granger. You want to know how it happened in order to prevent it? Be my guest. I want to know it so that I can repeat it. It looks like we have a common objective to me. We find out, and then each of us goes our separate ways," she rationalized.

Hermione supposed she had a point. Whatever Parkinson did with the knowledge, it was none of her business, no matter how irresponsible.

"Even if we do," she started cautiously, "none of us actually has any idea what's going on, right? I have absolutely nothing."

Parkinson frowned at that. "Good thing I didn't get my bookworm friend in the end," she said out of the blue. "It doesn't seem like it'd have been worth the effort." She dramatically sighed and moved closer to her.

"Well, I've checked many different theories, you know," she felt the need to defend herself, knowing it must have been an insult – she certainly could not have hinted at trying to become  _her_  friend. "But everything turns out wrong. Now, do  _you_  have any theories?" she countered, pride stung.

"Yes, well – also turned out wrong, you see," she weakly defended and, at Hermione's self-satisfied smirk, she hurriedly added, "Thought it could've been blood magic."

Hermione froze at that. Blood magic? What was that? Were there people who used  _blood_  in order to perform magic? At first, she thought, ' _That sounds dark_ ,' but quickly that thought was overwhelmed by a much louder one. ' _How did I never even hear about something like this?_ ' A whole branch of magic she had never even seen mentioned in passing? She knew there was no dark magic in the Hogwarts Library, but to completely erase all mention of a whole discipline? No matter how dark, it seemed like too much censorship to her.

"Oh, Merlin, Circe and the Founders all together! You've never even heard it named before, have you?" Parkinson exclaimed in surprise, making her blush at her own ignorance.

"Well, if it's not in Hogwarts, I couldn't possibly have," she said dryly.

Parkinson rolled her eyes in exasperation. "It's incredibly powerful magic. Forbidden, of course, just like anything else the dolts in the Ministry don't understand."

"You mean, anything else  _dark_ ," Hermione corrected her, grimacing.

"Well, no, Granger. I'll have you know that my grandmother's always used blood magic to care for her garden. Most beautiful roses I've ever seen! And it just requires a little drop, nothing else. But, Oh! Let's not allow the old lady to cut her own finger to water the flowers. It could be  _dangerous_ ," she barked, sarcastically. And, seeing the expression on Hermione's face, she added, "No, Granger, she was not invoking some demon to do so – it's  _not_  dark magic. Many ancient rituals, from the times when we didn't even use wands, have other elements that can draw magic from your core. Everyone used them, and no one ever lost their souls to the  _Dark Arts_ ," she finished, the last words laced with mock fear, sounding slightly like previous Minister Fudge.

The last sentence called her attention. Where had she read something like that? Blood, core… Parkinson interrupted her inner musings.

"So, I just thought – since we both got cut that day, it might have something to do with blood magic," she elaborated. "But I just don't think that every time two people get hurt at the same time, something like this happens. It'd be much more frequent, and we'd surely know about it."

Hermione considered her words, a new world of possibilities opening up in front of her. "This blood magic, it'd be very ritualistic, I guess?" she asked. Her mind worked at top speed, linking the little clues together.

"Well, yes, of course. Wizards didn't have wands. Meaning and intention have to be given in some way – you can't just drop some blood. The ritual gives the magic a  _reason_ ," she explained expertly.

Hermione truly envied Parkinson her magical heritage. "We didn't just get cut at the same time, Parkinson," she corrected, knowing she had just come upon the answer. "You could say that we cut  _each other_ , in a way," she pointed out. It had been the erratic movement of both their hands that had caused that piece of crystal to wound them.

Parkinson thought about it briefly before nodding curtly. "I guess you have a point. It would make sense; if it's something that involves two wizards, it should be connecting. A  _reciprocal_  action – much more meaningful. But, still, is it that uncommon? Just drawing blood at the same time?"

Hermione wondered at her words, bringing her hand to her lips unconsciously. As her index finger touched her mouth, the answer came to them both at the same time.

"We drank it!" she exclaimed.

"I got it in my mouth!" was Parkinson's outburst.

They exchanged a completely horrified look at that. Hermione because that just sounded corrupt, downright  _immoral_ , and Parkinson because – she guessed – well,  _mud_ blood.

But, thinking carefully, after that erratic, scraping cut, little droplets of their blood had flown  _everywhere_. They both must have gotten blood from the other on their own hands, and then brought their own injuries to their mouth. And, what was more reciprocal, more connecting, more  _ritualistic_ , than actually drinking each other's blood?

* * *

Hermione ran back to her room, aghast at the latest revelation. She had just performed  _blood magic_  to obtain power! It was abhorrent. She could not believe they had done that – even unintentionally – and within the school grounds to boot. They could have gotten  _expelled_ , had it been discovered.

She dropped onto her bed, sighing audibly, rolling around while trying to classify all of her mixed thoughts: fear, disgust, absolute indignation at having never been told about blood magic – the insecurities it brought, to know that being muggleborn truly was a handicap. She envied Parkinson her magical upbringing, she longed to know all the little, seemingly-mindless details. How she wished she had been introduced to everything earlier on.

She let her eyes roam through her room, wondering what Parkinson thought of the whole thing. She really did not seem to find the concept of blood magic repellent, so what had truly horrified her? Drinking someone else's blood, or drinking  _her_  blood? She let out a humourless chuckle, lamenting the unfairness of her life.

She saw Lavender's self-filling diary, sitting primly on her nightstand, along with the beautiful shape-changing earrings she had inherited from her grandmother. Parvati's was adorned with never-perishing tulips sent by her mother, a delicate set of mirrors which she was sure were used to communicate with her twin sister, and a small quill that always noted down the things she forgot. And her own… Well, there rested her grandfather's very muggle watch, a couple ball-point pens, Dostoyevsky's  _Crime and Punishment_ , and Ibsen's  _A Doll's House_ , and…

She jumped from the bed in one smooth movement, her heart suddenly beating so strongly she feared it might just burst. The  _book_. The thrice damned book. Of course, Parkinson's words had rung a bell: core, and blood.

" _The Coven is to the witch as the wand is to any wizard: the means to bring out her true power to its culmination._ "

" _It is through blood that the Coven is truly tied, it being the link between flesh and soul, the true connection between the cores of the sisters."_

A sense of dread overtook her. She had only ever read two sentences from the blasted thing, and now they seemed to come together beautifully to explain the  _one_  problem she had. It was a curious coincidence; and if her five years within the magical world had taught her something, it was to be distrustful of coincidences.

She picked it up with tremulous hands and started reading from the very beginning.

* * *

Pansy played absentmindedly with Millicent's white cat, thinking about her options. She was fairly sure she and Granger had reached the correct conclusion regarding their…  _issue_. However, it was not a satisfactory one. How was she supposed to regain her wonderful power, if that meant cutting the mudblood and actually drinking – she shuddered at the thought. Millie's cat jumped back, as if sensing something was off.

She had also considered talking to Millie and convincing her of performing the ritual, but she had a feeling it would be a bad idea. For once, Millie was not the most secretive nor discrete person, good girl as she was. Also, Granger might just sell them out to a professor if she saw them both getting extra magic. No, whomever knew of the blood magic ritual, needed to be involved. Lastly, she had a distinct feeling that whatever she had started with Granger, it might not be a good idea to start with anyone else. Blood magic was a delicate art, and if they had some sort of  _open_  connection – and since her magic spike had been lost, she felt it must not be closed –opening a second one might be a very bad idea indeed. Who knew what could happen? She did not mind taking a risk to become powerful, but it had to be a calculated one.

She sighed, resigning herself to the rest of her very average life. She hoped that, at least, Theodore's father was truly considering a match. Being Lady Nott did not sound so bad.

* * *

Hermione sat next to Garcia in the library, letting her books fall on the table with a loud  _thump_. The other girl looked up, raising an eyebrow, and Hermione just growled.

"Wild guess!" she said, "Ginger again?"

"Yes!" Hermione groaned, frustrated. "I just don't know what's wrong with him," she exclaimed, not caring that they had probably talked only about four to five times before. "He keeps on glaring at me, and snapping all the time, and right now he just made the most unreasonable comment about me lending a quill to Anthony Goldstein."

"The guy's just jealous, you know," she said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Well, yes, he's always been. But, what does that have to do with me? Why doesn't he take it out on Harry, then?" she complained, not really seeing the connection.

The girl threw her an incredulous look. "No, you  _dolt_. He's jealous about  _you_ , just like he was when you danced with Krum and he screamed loud enough for the whole school to hear." She spoke as if talking to someone a bit  _slow_.

Hermione frowned, confused once more. About her? Surely that could not be. He had never, ever done anything to make her think he liked her in that way. She would have noticed, having had a bit of a crush on him during fourth and fifth year.

"No way," she answered. "I'm not even seeing anyone, what would he have to be jealous about? If he liked me, he'd surely be  _nice_  instead of snappy and grumpy all the time."

"He ever strike you as a smart kind of guy?" Garcia just asked, apparently amused. She frowned once more. "Everyone knows the guy wants you, Minnie. It's just, he takes you for granted, and feels entitled to get mad when you don't pay him the attention he craves."

"No, no," she insisted. "He doesn't feel that way about me, he's let me see that more than once. Whatever everyone says, they're wrong. Silly rumours, like the ones about me dating Harry back in fourth year," she said, rolling her eyes.

Garcia just shrugged, but looked unconvinced. She went back to her usual work, and Hermione pulled out her half-done essay on essence of dittany. She hoped to finish it that very afternoon, and Garcia was not a chatty person when focused on her scribblings. She was unlikely to bother her.

After a couple of very productive hours, they were interrupted by someone loudly clearing their throat right next to their table. Hermione raised her eyes to see a rather pretty blond girl, long hair carefully tied in a thick braid, who possibly looked even shorter than she already was due to the fact that she was slightly plump.

"Chari!" Garcia exclaimed, and then rapidly looked for a clock. "I hadn't realized it was this late."

"Do you  _ever_?" the other girl scolded, hands firmly on her hips, looking motherly. "I've been waiting for the last twenty minutes!"

"Sorry, sorry… Time just flies when you spend it with friends – Minnie and I just had a very harmonious working silence," she defended.

At that, the girl looked at her in surprise, as if just realizing they had been sitting there  _together_. "Ah," she started with a sour look, "I see you're the new  _victim_." Hermione raised her brows at that, in need of further explaining. "I'm Charity Jones; she just calls me _Chari_  when I'm there to hear it," she elaborated with a grimace, actually extending her hand to shake for the introduction. "And now you're apparently  _Minnie_ , which leads me to believe that some unlucky twist of fate has made you join paths with Victoria here. I feel truly sorry for you," she finished as they shook hands.

"I remember you, yes," Hermione said. "You're in History class. Hermione Granger," she added.

"Chari, you're so  _not_  nice", Garcia pouted. "And you just refuse to call me Vicky too, so don't complain like that."

"You started it with the whole _Chari_  thing!" the girl snapped shrilly, "At least I'm consistent and I call you Victoria when I talk about you to someone else!"

"Wait a second," Hermione asked, slightly pissed. "You just call her Chari because you know it  _annoys_  her?" she interrogated Garcia, standing and bringing her hands to her hips too. "And that's why I'm Minnie, I guess?"

"No, no, no," she defended, shaking her hands vigorously. "You're Minnie and Chari and I'm Vicky. You see, it  _fits_. Besides, friends don't call each other such long names," she insisted.

Charity scowled deeply at that, and glared. As usual, though, Garcia was immune.

"Whatever," she gave up, "we're already late, we have to hurry."

"Oh, come on! That stupid game goes on forever, who cares if we're a few minutes late. We suck, anyway…"

Hermione looked amusedly as the short blond girl effortlessly pulled on Garcia to force her to stand up, clearly intending to drag her all the way to – she assumed – the Quidditch pitch.

"Hufflepuffs stay together, and we support our friends," Charity chastised. "Whether we win or lose is irrelevant," she insisted with a final pull.

Garcia dramatically threw her hands up, as if indicating she was giving up, and stood to collect her stuff, all the time complaining about how Quidditch made no sense at all. "I mean, come on! It's a game about two guys chasing a golden flying ball for  _hours_. It's so boring, they even had to add some other six players to pass around some ball and hit each other, so that the public would be entertained meanwhile."

Charity rolled her eyes. She looked like she was tired of having that conversation.

"Oh, God," Hermione said, rolling her eyes. The other two looked back at her, startled. "I think I might actually  _agree_  with you," she dramatically exclaimed in mock horror.

Garcia snorted, feigning offence.

Charity chuckled. "I don't think that's  _ever_  happened to me," she said.

* * *

Hermione returned to the Common Room late that afternoon, and saw Harry and Ron chatting excitedly while sitting on the couches. The latter saw her and waved, as if the last three awkward weeks had not happened. Hermione went to them, irritated, wondering how many times that cycle would repeat itself.

"Hermione, you should've seen the match this afternoon," Ron started, and she inwardly groaned at that. Harry chuckled, surely picturing her thoughts.

"Ron's just excited now that we know Slytherin's lost a match already," he explained.

"I can't wait t'see the look on the ferret's face!" he smugly said, leaning back on the couch with satisfaction.

"I don't know, mate. I don't think Malfoy cares about Quidditch much this year," Harry added, looking serious.

She shared a look with Ron that clearly meant they were both thinking the Malfoy obsession was getting problematic. After that, Ron quickly jumped in to change the topic, much to Hermione's relief.

"Did y'see that Porskoff Ploy the 'Puffs pulled, though? Impressive! We gotta watch out for that one!"

Harry nodded animatedly and started strategizing how to counter whatever that move was. Hermione just sighed and pulled out a book to read. Well, whether she could follow the conversation or not, that was clearly better than obsessing over Malfoy or Snape. Harry's had a serious problem with anger management, despite the multiple meetings with the Headmaster. Not that Hermione could blame him; Dumbledore had ignored Harry for a whole year – regardless of the whole occlumancy issue, and the possibility of having Voldemort spy on him, she thought it had been a foolish move. Harry had enough abandonment issues as it was – and then Sirius dying like that…

Well, a relaxing evening sitting near the fire, hearing her two best friends' excited banter – not a bad way to end the day. She smiled, pleased. Everything was finally back to normal.

* * *

Pansy walked quickly – though still elegantly, mind you – through the empty streets of Hogsmeade. It was quite late already, and she feared she should have accepted Theo's offer to walk her up to the Castle. However, she had not wanted to make him wait through what promised to be a few long hours of browsing through Gladrags Wizardwear's stock – limited as it was, sometimes one could find a few good quality items; she  _so_  needed a new pair of winter shoes. Now she feared she would have to rush all the way back alone, dark as it was.

And, worst of all, she was in dire need of a toilet.

She sped up, wondering if she could really hold back the half an hour it would take her to reach the Castle's gates. Maybe she should have used Gladrag's after all… But just thinking of unisex bathrooms had made her quiver.

She saw light through the half-closed back-door of The Three Broomsticks. She smiled – sneaking in for a quick relief would be easy.

She quietly opened the door and, careful not to make the wooden floor crack audibly, she crept in, headed for the bathroom. She did her business quickly, hoping Madame Rosmerta was still in the middle of cleaning up and would not head toward the back to lock the door.

As she was washing her hands, she heard a loud, dry  _crack_  followed by a shrill shriek. She froze. Scared, she was all too aware that Death Eaters were back in business and that not all of them stopped to make sure little girls were mudbloods before firing a spell – or worse. She struggled to decide whether it would be better to hide in the stalls or make a run for it.

She quietly listened to a series of loud bangs and cracks – coming, she thought, from the kitchen – as her heart-rate sped up. If Death Eaters were truly there, they might search the whole place. The safest course of action must be getting the hell out of there, and fast.

She rushed out, keeping her footsteps light, and almost swore out loud when she found herself in front of the back door again.  _Locked_. She pulled out her wand and whispered a few unlocking spells, but they either were not the right ones, or she was not performing properly – both her hands and her voice shook so much she might not pull off a simple  _expelliarmus_.

She almost whimpered and, when she heard the sound of footsteps coming from the kitchen, she rushed to hide underneath one of the tables at the furthest corner of the room. The full, solid, wooden benches covered her completely – as long as no-one approached to have a better look.

She heard the soft sound of muted crying and the distinctive, harsh rustling of someone crawling with difficulties. She tried to stifle her breathing, convinced whomever was there could hear her rasping breaths as clearly as herself.

" _Imperio,"_  a very well-known voice said clearly, and she froze.

No way.

Her legs shook. No way that was  _Draco_  there, using an Unforgivable – his voice so casual he might have been ordering tea.

The Draco that had used to gossip with her. The Draco that settled his head on her lap to let her play with his soft, blond tresses. The Draco that had hid from his mother with her, escaping the dreaded piano lessons. The Draco that had ran after peacocks along with Theo, and had always hidden an ugly picture of his grandmother amongst the Christmas Tree ornaments – much to Lucius' chagrin – and had helped her carry her trunk into the Hogwart's Express every year since their first.

The Draco that had struck her so hard she had actually fallen to the ground.

She felt a hot tear fall down her cheek and tried hard not to let out a ragged, harsh breath. If he saw her there, who knew what he would do this time. She had just witnessed something she was not supposed to; and happy as she was to pretend it had never happened, she was not sure Draco would take the risk.

She could hear him speak softly, probably murmuring instructions, or perhaps further incantations. He went silent, eventually, and Pansy waited with her heart in her throat, hoping to hear his retreating footsteps. They never seemed to come. She swallowed more nervously and shook more furiously with every passing second, her mind conjuring images of Draco slowly making his way to her hiding place, in absolute silence.

Could he know she was there?

She should have hidden better. She should have stayed in the bathroom. She pressed her mouth shut strongly as more and more tears travelled down her wet face. She should have learned how to do a proper disillusionment charm. She almost laughed at that – would have if the situation were not so dire – she had not even managed to unlock a door! How could she dream of performing such high level magic?

She closed her eyes, wondering if he would come for her or not, just wishing to  _know_  already.

She should have taken Granger's blood. That would have worked. That would have made her strong again, able to defend herself against Draco; against  _anyone_. Who cared if the blood was dirty. She would gladly drink  _mud_  if it meant she never again had to cower under a table, fearing for her life.

Never mind a mudblood, she would make a deal with the Devil itself.

She heard a soft step. She held her breath in, heartrate uncontrolled. Would she die there? Under a cheap table, shaking on the greasy ground of a dirty  _pub_? She could not imagine a more shameful dying place. At least, she thought serenely, she had emptied her bladder beforehand. That would give her a little dignity.

Suddenly, he broke into a run, sound of steps dimming quickly; the loud bang of a door. She let out the breath she had been keeping audibly and, after what must have been minutes of utter terror, risked raising her head and checking out the place.

Nobody was there anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I see some people are excited about the story, so please keep giving me feedback. I'll do my best. Thanks for reading! Any comments/suggestions?


	3. Bounds

**Coven. Ch. 3: Bounds**

 

Hermione nodded as Ron explained in unnecessary detail the workings of yet another Quidditch manoeuvre. She appreciated that he tried, and hard, to get her excited about the game; explaining absolutely everything she did not understand. However, the real problem was not her muggle upbringing, but her absolute lack of interest in the sport. Still, as they made the effort, she would make it too. She figured the situation reversed when she started talking about History of Magic. 

On the other side of the table, Ginny kept throwing her amused glances, aware of her predicament, as she talked to Luna about some sort of coming-of-age ritual. At their side, Neville dropped heavily onto the bench, sighing loudly.

“Hey Nev, what’s up?” Ron asked, concerned.

“It’s just Slughorn,” he answered pitifully. “He kept on talking about how great my parents were, and how much they were respected, and how much he’d like to have me in his Potions class!” he wailed. “But I _suck_ at Potions, and when I told him, he gave me such a–a _condescending_ look!”

Hermione frowned, disapprovingly. Such blatant favouritism or hatred for specific students was one of the things she most disliked about the magical world. They had no commissions –not counting Umbridge– destined to evaluate the quality of teaching; and Dumbledore clearly did not take the necessary measures to ensure fairness amongst his staff. And, most shocking of all, Hogwarts _was_ a public school. While having the Ministry be unable to appoint teaching staff seemed to work in their favour these days, it was still clearly not _right_ that they had no supervision of the issue. However, complaining would get her nowhere; she knew that.

“That fat toad!” Ron exclaimed, also rather miffed at Slughorn’s attitude towards him.

“Professor Slughorn’s a self-interested, egomaniacal, pompous adulator,” she contributed, earning a surprised look from Ron. “Don’t mind what he thinks about you, Neville. His opinion isn’t any more valid than anyone else’s.”

Neville threw her a grateful little smile, and seemed to cheer up a little. Ron also looked quite a bit happier after her dissing, and cheerfully included his sister, Luna and Neville into a detailed comparison between Slughorn’s dressing choices and toad skin. By the end of it, she had laughed so hard her sides hurt.

“Where’s Harry? Can’t believe he missed this!” she asked, brushing tears from her eyes, still laughing slightly. Ginny tried to feign disinterest in the question, quickly raising and announcing she would go find Dean, earning a profound scowl from Ron.

“He must be playing his new favourite sport,” Ron guessed sullenly, munching on some toast.

That was their code for Harry’s recent obsessive “Malfoy Watching”, which meant their problem might be getting out of control. They were barely one month and a half into the school year, and she could already foresee trouble, as usual. 

“I hope he’ll get over it soon,” she answered hopefully, receiving and “Um” as response. “The idea that Malfoy is a Death Eater is preposterous… Can you imagine?” she said, grimacing. “Voldemort recruiting school kids!” Ron yelped at her use of the name and glared at her, almost having choked on his food. “Malfoy isn’t even old enough to apparate! Do the other Death Eaters take turns side-alonging him?”

“Maybe his mother does it for him,” Ron added with mirth, and they shared a laugh. “Mommy dear, please, this weekend I need you to send me some yummy chocolates and then pick me up at school secretly to take me to a murder scene.” He said, pretending to write a letter with some hand flourish.

“P.S.: Please do the cursing for me, I still have a trace on my wand,” she finished, signing pompously at the end.

They sniggered, earning a confused frown from Neville, who had just been updating Seamus on their new fifty ways to compare Slughorn to fat amphibians.

* * *

Pansy had only ever had one single objective in life: to marry well.

She knew she was not effortlessly pretty, like Greengrass or Cho Chang; her nose was slightly too turned-up to appear delicate, and her expression usually came off as aggressive. She had countered those effects with considerable effort; generous make-up to emphasize her lips and eyes –her nicer facial features– and a very tight control on her body and poise. She could not change the shape of her nose easily; but keeping slim, choosing nice, fitted dresses and high heels, she could do.

She was not especially intelligent; more cunning than bright, though that was not undesired in a future bride. No man liked to be overshadowed by his own wife. She kept herself from uttering complete idiocies, and frequently let men around her reach the right conclusions before her. Adulation and flattery to make a man feel important; that she could do.

However, she did not possess an inborn elegance, an effortless grace. She was naturally rude, crass, direct. She had to force herself to feign interest in Draco’s endless monologues about Potter and Quidditch; or in Theodore’s comments on classwork. She had to control her reactions carefully; her usual grimacing, the faces of disgust when Gregory spread his socks around, her expressive eye-rolls when people acted as stupid as they were. Daphne would have reacted with a small smile and a slightly lifted brow.

She was sure the boys generally found her more fun to be around, especially had in their younger years; but she was not marriage material. Still, she strived for perfection.

Her mother had taught her to be seductive; to walk with that sway of hips that drew eyes, to sit with confidence, to purse her lips slightly, and bite on them softly. One of them would fall, she had assured her.

It did not seem to be holding true.

The boys _wanted_ her, sure enough, despite her not-so-graceful face. But not as a wife.

For the past year, she had been convinced her only option was to wait for her father to find a suitor –not the most ideal one, as the Parkinsons were not _poor_ , but they were not rich either, in the eyes of other purebloods– and arrange as he saw fit. Maybe she would get lucky and it would be someone like her; good enough but not quite what one would have desired. Flint, with his shark-like teeth and rather blunt mind, but who looked like he would respect his wife above anything else. Montague, who was socially awkward and rather unattractive, but a nice enough man with a good mind for business.

However, since the day one of her mother’s more direct warnings had assured her the Dark Lord was back, she had feared she would find herself crying under a half-gone man like Rabastan Lestrange.

Draco; her old friend Draco, had been her only hope.

Now, though, with that clearly out of the picture, she had been fearful once more. Now she knew she did not only depend on finding a husband for money, but also for _protection_. Fear did not suit her, she felt, and after the incident in the pub she had had quite enough of it.

Could she hope Theodore would offer? If the Dark Lord raised, so would the Notts; and that would put them way out of her reach. If he did not, she might go down with them. Pansy would have risked it, honestly; as long as she did not take the mark herself, even if Theodore and his father ended up in Azkaban, no matter how disgraced it left her, all their fortune would be hers. Well, she might have to pay some reparations; but she would remain filthy rich, and free.

However, as already stated, Pansy only took calculated risks. And if she had to weight blind hope at winning the husband lottery against pure, certain power… Well, it was not much of a choice, really. 

* * *

 

Theodore glanced at Pansy again, taking on her unnatural paleness and the very little amount of food on her plate. Something was evidently wrong with her, and no matter what she said, he would bet all his fortune that it had to do with sodding Draco Malfoy. 

He jerked suddenly as he felt a strong kick against his chin, turning to glare at Blaise intensely. The bastard had not held back. They exchanged a couple of expressive eye-wiggles, which were just Blaise telling him to cut it out already with the staring, and him answering where he could shove his opinion.

Goyle frowned in confusion and asked him if he had something in his eye, which meant they were definitely being way too obvious for the Slytherin table. At Blaise’s side, Crabbe gobbled down bacon and eggs without any restraint, putting their supposedly high-class upbringing into question. 

“Vhere’sh Draco?” he asked, mouth full, earning a condescending, disapproving look from Blaise.

“Must be busy,” Goyle answered in what he must have thought was a coolly secretive voice, and then sniggered. Crabbe sniggered right back, and Theodore rolled his eyes at the pathetic attempt at Slytherin cunning.

Blaise met his eyes again and he nodded almost imperceptibly. Yes, there was something going on with Draco those past few days; and if his superior smiles and affected gestures –preferring his left arm– were to be believed, he could guess just what it was. The sole idea, however, of being enslaved to _that man_ , and so very early, was repulsive. How he would manage to stall his father on that decision, he did not yet know.

Pansy finished eating and stood up quickly, arm slightly shaking. His eyes darted to her for a second, and then again back to his food, not wanting to receive another kick. He could have sworn she actually looked _scared_ ; which was preposterous, as Pansy had not been scared of anything in her life. Well, maybe of her mother, but that was very understandable; that woman could make the Dark Lord himself fucking pee his pants, he would swear.

Blaise stood, throwing him a pointed look, and he sighed and stood right afterwards. They still had a good twenty minutes to get to their next class, but it was clear that his friend wanted to have _the talk_ , again. They walked in silence for a few minutes, until they were safely away from any possible eavesdroppers.

“Man, seriously, you need to stop!” Blaise said between his teeth, impatiently. Theodore just huffed at that, bringing a hand to his hair in frustration. “The whole bloody table is going to notice you just can’t take your eyes off her. And you know what that means!”

Yes, he knew what that meant: comments to their parents, and sudden family dinners and, BAM! an engagement on the way. And being engaged to Pansy Parkinson would drive any man crazy; that he was sure of.  

“It’s just…,” he started, “She’s been acting strange for a whole month now,” he replied, hoping to appeal to his softer side. 

“So what!” He said, and Theo remembered there was nothing soft, in or out, when dealing with Blaise Zabini. “She had some weird magic bang, must’ve been abusing some substance or another. Now she suddenly loses it, and seems pale, depressed and withdrawn. Clear abstinence syndrome, my friend. No mysteries to be solved here.”

He wanted to say Pansy would never do that; but he honestly believed her capable of absolutely anything to achieve her goals, and so he did not answer. He reluctantly followed Blaise to the dungeons, wondering why he had gotten such a selfish bastard for a best friend; until he remembered that the other options had been Draco and the two apes.

They sat in their usual spots, Draco right behind them, and wondered where Pansy had gone; as she had clearly left before them, and they had taken the long way to get to the classroom. On the other side of the room, Potter and Weasley were discussing animatedly while looking at their very tattered Potions book. He sneered at that. Not only could they not afford a new one, they actually had to _share_ such a ragged thing? Surprisingly, right behind them, Granger seemed to be sharing his opinion; as she kept glaring at the book –who would have thought they would see the day she would not _love_ a book– with clear disapproval.

After a couple of minutes, Pansy entered the room in a hurry and, very ostensibly avoiding looking in Draco’s way, went out of her way to sit by Granger’s side.

He could not decide who appeared more surprised by the unexpected turn of events; Draco, who had lost his usual Potions partner, Granger, who seemed as petrified as she had been in second year, or himself, who had firmly believed Pansy could not get any weirder. 

He turned slightly and looked at Blaise sideways, who looked back and seemed to be considering his concern seriously for the first time. Draco made a strangled sound right behind them, and appeared to be debating between indignation at such a slight, and outright bemusement. Ganger had just started hissing at Pansy in a low, quick voice; which was being patiently and gracefully ignored.

That apparently made Potter and Weasley turn around, but before they could start tearing into her, Slughorn entered and demanded silence. 

“You know, it might not be abstinence syndrome after all,” Blaise commented nonchalantly, recovered from his initial surprise. Theodore nodded eagerly. “She must _still_ be high on something,” he deduced, and started a fire underneath his cauldron.

Theodore scowled at him and got to work.

* * *

Pansy carefully inspected her nails, muttering a soft “tsk” as she noticed one small dip into her otherwise perfect manicure. Potty and Weasel seemed to not have noticed her yet, which was all for the better. She truly did not feel like dealing with so many peasants at once; and Weasel’s freckles made her feel rather nauseous.

“What the heck are you doing?” Granger hissed sharply. “Are you out of your mind? Have you turned blind overnight?” she exclaimed, nervously waving her hands.

“Knickers, Granger, knickers,” she said calmly, which of course did not make the other girl untwist.

“Don’t you tell me to calm down, Parkinson. Why’re you sitting here? There’s plenty of empty seats everywhere! There’s one right there besides Malf…” and then she stopped mid-sentence, understanding finally sinking in. 

Pansy glared at her furiously. How dare the little mudblood bint throw her such a look of _pity_? She was not some bloody house-elf or any of her charity works; she was a _pureblood_ , for Merlin’s sake! Granger seemed to notice her raising anger, and deeply furrowed her brows.

“Well, you’ve been sitting next to him in Potions for the past few weeks,” she pointed out, clearly confused. “What changed?”

‘ _He almost made me choke on my own tears while I hid under a grimy table, like some filthy stray dog_ ’ she thought, fury simmering under her skin. She was a lady, she was a pureblood, she was the damned heir of the Parkinson family! She would not, ever again, cower in fear when facing Draco Malfoy; she had sworn it to herself.

“Mind your own business,” she hissed back, wrath barely contained.

“I was!” she complained shrilly, “And then you came and sat your _royal_ arse right next to mine!”

That finally drew the Golden Boys’ attention, and they turned quickly to jump in her defence. Pansy sneered, the sight of such shabby glasses and ugh-so-many freckles making her stomach churn.

Slughorn chose that precise moment to enter the classroom, saving her from the annoyance of their uncultured speech and overall coarseness.

“Parkinson,” she insisted, voice lower now, while she hurried to prepare her ingredients. “What do you want?” she glanced at her with narrowed eyes, starting to cut an adder’s fork while waiting for the freezing charm to wear off on her fire seeds.

“Your blood,” she answered, simply, and Granger almost cut her finger when her knife faltered.

“What?!” she exclaimed as silently as she could, setting the knife back down onto her desk. “Have you gone completely mental?”

Pansy briefly pondered on the heavy irony of having insulted her lower blood all her life, and now actually _wanting_ it. Surely sweet Circe up in the Heavens was laughing at her. However, lower-class blood or not, they had an open connection she could –and would– use. After all, she had also eaten plebeian food since entering Hogwarts, like chickpeas and such, and she had not _died_ , disgusting as they were.

“Would you listen to me?” she insisted. “I thought we’d agreed that it was _wrong_ ,” she commented disgruntledly.

“We quite agreed that it was _distasteful_ ,” she rectified. “But so is Pepperup, and we still drink it when we have a cold.”

Granger gave her one of those looks that clearly meant she thought her the Devil incarnate, which were honestly getting old. She truly needed to open her mind a little bit! Still, being of muggle origin and having only ever been taught at Hogwarts, what could one expect? That was one of the reasons mudbloods were a peril; they were so very malleable! And, of course, the first person who got to shape them was always Dumbledore. That man was completely dictating the limits of right and wrong, by the means of inculcating those ideas in the minds of all young children in Britain!

“You _are_ out of your mind,” Granger dictated with revulsion. “I’m not performing dark magic rituals with you, Parkinson. I _cannot_ believe you actually have to ask in order to know that!”

“First of all, Granger, I’m not asking,” she answered, getting her own fire seeds into the cauldron. Whatever the book said, she knew it was better to introduce them while still cold –and a bit early–, and let them gain temperature within the warm liquid. “And, secondly, it’s blood magic, not dark magic. They’re not the same,” she corrected her again. Granger seemed unconvinced, which made her roll her eyes. “You didn’t even know it existed just a week ago, and now, suddenly, you can classify it?” she asked, knowing where to hit to make her foundations crumble. She could not bear with the idea of not knowing something.

“If it’s banned in Hogwarts, then it means it’s dark,” she insisted. “Or else, Dumbledore would allow the books in the library.”

Pansy rolled her eyes theatrically. How very naïve the girl was.

“So, it’s bad because Dumbledore says so? Is that what you’re telling me?” Granger pouted, but did not deny it. “Will you do this your whole life? Anything Dumbledore dislikes, you will dislike too, even if you’ve never even heard of it?” she kept on pressing. “That’s called being a mindless little pawn, Granger.”

The other girl turned and started paying attention to her potion once more. The next few steps were complicated, and demanded their full attention, and so they worked in silence for several minutes.

“Just think about it,” Pansy started again, when she was back to only steering the liquid, “has Dumbledore actually _never_ made a decision you disagreed with?” she asked casually, planting the seed of doubt a little bit deeper.

She saw Granger furrow her brows again, while she steered and steered, pretending she had not heard. 

* * *

Hermione left the Potions classroom, after convincing Harry and Ron that yes, she was fine and no, no need to go confront Parkinson for her little stunt. She wanted to go to the library to study, as that would most likely get the other girl’s words out of her mind.

She had to admit she had struck a chord. Of course, she was not as naïve as Harry, and did not think Dumbledore was a perfectly wise and saintly man who held all the right answers. If he were that omnipotent, Voldemort would be no more. Still, she did have faith in the old wizard. What else was she supposed to do. 

But then, he seemed unconcerned about so many issues going on inside the school… Snape and Slughorn were some blatant examples about what was wrong with Hogwart’s teaching policies; but some others, like Hagrid and Trelawney, were also very questionable. And, if she could clearly see that some of Dumbledore’s decisions were not _right_ , how could she have blind faith that all the rest were?

She understood the point Parkinson had made. After all, some magic could be banned for political reasons, or out of blind fear. That happened in the muggle world too; and so she firmly believed that wizarding society would be no exception. Just like muggles had been afraid of scientists saying that the Earth turned around the Sun, just like supreme powers like the Catholic Church had hidden and denied knowledge that threatened to take away their absolute authority; in the same way, she could see the Ministry denying them the knowledge of magics they found hard to control.

However, she did not quite feel comfortable with the notion that knowledge was being withheld from her because some people, who did not even know her, had thought her unprepared to understand it and use it with care.

The question was, how much of it was justified? She understood the necessity of banning some kinds of magic; but if the Catholic Church had once made a decision she now firmly disagreed with, who was to say the Ministry was not doing the same thing? Sometimes those decisions were made based on prejudice, and not reason.

She sighed. Whether the Ministy was hiding important knowledge or not, and whether all blood magic should be banned or not, it was irrelevant. Parkinson was trying to twist her mind, but no matter how much she challenged her belief system, she would not agree that drinking each other’s blood in a most-likely forbidden ritual was a good idea.

It truly was surprising, though, that she would be desperate enough to want to drink _mud_ blood. She wondered if, had she also been average like her, she would be seeing the situation in a new light. Clearly, not being talented after having had a small taste was screwing with Parkinson’s mind.

She was awoken from her inner musings by the sight of someone waving at her cheerfully. Charity had stood –not that it made such a big difference, in her case– and was inviting her to sit with them. Slightly touched that for the first time in five years and almost two months another girl was willingly inviting her to sit together in the library, she made her way over there. Of course, that would mean risking being annoyed by Garcia, but she seemed very focused in reading some old tome while tapping her fingers on the table in a pattern, so there was a chance she would not even notice her.

Hermione was about to sit down next to Charity, Garcia occupying the head of the table, when the latter dropped her old tome suddenly, which fell onto the wooden surface with a loud bang, startling them all. 

“You should sit right here,” Garcia said, pointing at her other side. “It’s symmetric this way.”

Charity sighed, as if that was not totally unexpected.

“What? Why?” Hermione asked, already irked.

“It’s an opportunity to sit symmetrically,” she insisted. “A very good one too! You both have lighter and longer hair, and larger breasts,” she commented casually, and Hermione almost felt the need to cover herself, “and lighter skin. It’s a pity Chari is so short, but if we sit down, then it’s barely noticeable.”

“I’m not asking why it’s symmetrical,” Hermione replied stubbornly, while Charity seemed to decide to start working again, pulling out of their discussion. “I’m asking why it’s important to sit symmetrically,” she clarified, hands on her hips again. Damn, Garcia always pulled this position out of her. 

“ _Because_ life favours symmetry,” she answered simply. “Magic favours symmetry. If you try to go along with it, and not oppose it, magic will favour you.” 

Hermione threw her the most disbelieving look she could muster. Surely she could not believe such drivel. What would be next, Divination? Should she decide her sitting position on the library based on the movements of the stars? Should she sleep with her head toward Polaris? 

“If you keep talking to her, she’ll convince you,” Charity warned, not raising her head from her work.

“What? No way. This is utter tripe!” she protested.

“Is it, though?” Garcia asked, letting her book down –a very old looking volume on Numerical Magic Theory, she could now see–. “Arithmancy tells us it’s not.”

Hermione frowned, but still turned around and went to sit at her other side. If they were going to argue, it was better if they sat side to side; it had _nothing_ to do with symmetry.

“What does arithmancy have to do with all this?” she asked. She knew symmetry could be important in some calculations, but she was telling her that it was important _outside_ of arithmancy.

“Everything, Minnie. Arithmancy has to do with absolutely everything in this world,” she assured her. At her disbelieving eyebrow-raise, she added, “Well, let me give you an example: check the _numerical equivalents_ of any step in any spell,” she asked. Hermione knew numerical equivalents were the arithmantically derived numbers for virtually anything in the magical world; and spells were no exception. Every wand movement; circling, turning, going up or down –and always taking the speed and tempo into account– had one. “Come on, give me a spell.”

“Silencio,” she grumbled, tempted to not go along with the whole thing; but too proud to look like she had admitted defeat.

Garcia smiled playfully, and raised a hand, “First a slow half-circumference counterclockwise, which is a six, then a quick movement down, which is a one; that makes seven.  Oh, seven! Good spell!” she interrupted herself excitedly. “Well, then it’s strong orange in colour which is a three, and then silence is a four. That’s seven again,” she finished smugly. “Symmetric.”

Hermione stared at her, nonplussed. Was she being serious? “There’s no way on Earth you can do this with any spell I give you. And, besides, how random is it that you count the wand movements, and then sum up the colour and effect of the spell?” she protested. 

“Not random at all, Minnie dear, because it works,” she replied in a very satisfied manner, and contentedly went back to reading her book.   

Hermione kept staring at her in utter disbelief. No, it could not work. There was no way! Like, for example, _Expelliarmus_ went down and then twirled, which was a one and a five; then colour was bright scarlet which was a three and then the effects… How could she account for the effect? There was disarming, which was loss of magic, which had to be a minus three, and then attraction was a six, which meant… Damn, three. Six and six, that was symmetric. 

Something more specific, then, maybe. _Oculus Reparo_. That was a clear nine for hand movement, and then effects… Five, plus ten, minus six… Damn it, again! That _had_ to be a coincidence! And then she remembered what she had learned about the unlikeliness of coincidences in the magical world, and she grimaced. She heard Garcia’s low chuckle by her side, and she glared. 

“Surely it cannot hold for something complex, like… like a Fidelius!” she said, not as convinced as she had been at the start. She took out a piece of paper and noted down all the hand movements.

“You’ve to account for the soul of the caster,” Garcia reminded her, and she nodded. “And don’t forget the consequences for breaking the spell!” she added, forgetting her book again and getting closer to scribble in the same paper, adding to the list. “So, here and here, this is a forty-four for hand… No, no way, we forgot something. Four is just such a non-magical number. It’s impossible…”

“Movements are here, and then… Oh, the caster and the receiver, and the secret-keeper! This makes three people, which means we need an extra minus nine in here… Yes, now, it’s a thirty-six.” Hermione corrected herself. “And then in the effects… This one is complex, we need to include the variables for any numbers of people to which the secret-keeper allows to know the location… Wait, this is a parametrical equation, give a minute.”

Garcia nodded and started revising her numbers. After several minutes of rapid solving, Hermione dropped the quill with a very frustrated exclamation. “No way! There’s just no way!”

“Thirty-six again, my dear,” was all the answer she received.

“Told you she’d convince you,” Charity remarked.

Hermione sulked and spent the next half an hour trying to find an error in their numbers, unsuccessfully. She refused to believe that whole symmetry tripe made sense with every spell she could think of. Surely she would have read that somewhere, if it were true; surely professor Vector would have mentioned it! Surely she had not found yet another piece of mysterious magic nobody had thought to tell her about!

“I don’t know why you’re so frustrated, Minnie. It makes a lot of sense, that spells have to be symmetric. You demand a number from the Universe, and the Universe complies. If you ask for a thirty-six, why would the Universe give you anything else?" 

“Your weird brand of reasoning is giving me a headache!” Hermione complained, moodily. “Wait!” she exclaimed in a fit of inspiration, “How do you explain wandless magic, then?” she asked smugly, convinced she had found the loophole.

“Well, you certainly must be asking for a thirty-six in some other way, then,” she simply answered; and Hermione just let out a frustrated groan. There was no winning such an irrational discussion.

* * *

Pansy flipped the book pages unceremoniously. She had asked her mother for “that beautiful little book collection dear Grandmama used to care for her garden”, and had received ten carefully concealed volumes dealing with different forms of blood magic. Of course, having to pass Ministry inspections, concealment went so far as to effectively code the content. Indeed, they seemed to be books talking about flowers.

‘Roses’ were blood, and ‘carnations’ was obviously death; but then ‘plucking’ was drawing and ‘moonlight’ was magical core and ‘flowering’ was magic; and she was getting a headache. It was a good thing she had communicated with her mother and Grandmama using that code since she was a young child –a fact his father, or any member of their family, was unaware of– or she would be completely lost. Still, they had always used it to talk about gossip and how her mother would actually be in France to visit her lover, and not to contribute to some charity; never had she had to read such a complex text. 

The main problem she had, apart from the headache-inducing decoding, was that anything related to old magics was always vague and confusing. She was not sure if what she had just read implied she had an open connection to Granger, or if it just meant that she should not perform rituals when on her period –“still bleeding opening” was not very specific, in her opinion; even less when it read something similar to “the still moist roses in the deep niche”–.

Now that she thought about it, could her mother’s obsession with not brewing while on that time of the month come from here?

Her reading was interrupted by Tracey loudly entering the room in a non-unusual fit of drama. She guessed she had broken things off with Blaise _again_ , and huffed loudly. How she kept going back to him, she could not understand. She was just a half-blood! Blaise would _never_ seriously date her. He just needed somewhere warm to dip it in; and mudbloods were just a no-go, while purebloods you dated for real, not for quick relief. Half-bloods were Blaise’s ideal hunting ground; and Tracey seemed to not have figured it out in the course of the last two years.

Millie had a soft spot for the girl, and so she quickly followed her in, throwing Pansy an apologetic glance. She just dropped the book and went out to the common room, annoyed. Blaise and Theodore were talking quietly in a corner, close to one of the green windows that gave to the Great Lake. 

“Circe’s love, Zabini,” she started as she approached them. “Can’t you just fish _outside_ of our own house?” she chastised. “Now I’ll live surrounded by _drama_ for at least a week!”

They both turned around and gave her the weirdest look, just to exchange one of their meaningful glances right afterwards. They seemed to be able to speak based solely on eye contact, and she found it infuriating. If she ever did marry Theodore, she would need to decode that.

“You do seem to be fishing outside of our own house, Pans,” Zabini commented with a nonchalance that did not trick her for a second. She was well aware that at least ten people had their ears on their conversation. 

“Well, Granger seemed to be in high spirits lately,” she added with the same unconcerned tone. “I just couldn’t let that go on.”

The answer did not fully convince them, she could tell from their tense shoulders and careful expressions. However, it was plausible enough to get them out of her hair. Dealing with Greengrass later would be much harder.

* * *

Hermione glanced at Harry once more, knowing Ron must be doing the same thing, right at his other side. Encountering Mundungus had done nothing to improve his anger issues, and she feared he might be ready to explode once more. He kept on grumbling and growling about Sirius’ house, and respect, and what the hell was Dumbledore doing.

She figured he was doing more important things, like preparing to wage war against Voldemort, but thought it prudent to keep it to herself. Harry was not the most reasonable person in the world; much less after being reminded so cruelly of Sirius’ death.

Suddenly, a sharp cry pierced the calm, grey day and when she looked up Katie Bell was suspended in mid-air, unnaturally still, and screaming her lungs out, as if possessed by the Devil.

Harry rushed out so quickly she barely had time to register it before she had actually processed what was going on. She cursed and went after him, screaming at him not to touch her. They did not know what was wrong with the girl, and she could very well have something that propagated on contact. 

Unsurprisingly, Harry did not listen and just jumped to get to her feet, quickly assisted by Ron. She screamed once more for them to stop, worry in her voice, as she quickly approached at her top speed. When she reached them, Katie was already back to a one-meter distance from the ground, and Harry dashed out once more, toward the castle. Leanne was helping Ron hold her down, and the maddening screaming continued as Katie floated.

She went around Ron and cursed once more when she saw the necklace firmly clutched within Katie’s hands. She frantically searched around them until she saw the package it must have been contained in until the moment. Much faster than her hands, her brain deduced the following: 

One, that _suspicious_ , gaudy necklace must be cursed. There was nothing else in the girl’s close proximity that could be inducing such an estate.

Two, it must have been contained until that very moment, as Katie had been walking in front of them for a while. That beige cloth on the ground must have been around it until a moment before.

Three, that must mean the necklace was now _dangerous_ , and bloody Ronald and Leanne might just touch it accidentally and join their friend; which was definitely _bad_. 

She rushed to take the wrapping and darted back to the others, yelling at Leanne to make some space and pushing strongly, until she could grab the cursed jewellery with the wrapper and forcefully get it away from her. She pulled and pulled strongly, until Ron realised what she was trying to do and pulled Katie in the opposite direction. 

Once the contact was broken, Katie stopped screaming and fell like a dead weight in Ron’s arms. Hermione breathed hard, due to both adrenaline and exertion, and quickly enveloped the cursed object more carefully. They had attracted a lot of attention, and many students approached them to help –or to get a better glimpse of what was going on–, while others looked on from a safe distance. 

Harry arrived then, nosily making his way in-between the gathered crowd, Hagrid right behind him. Hermione grimaced. Why did those things always have to happen to them? And why must Harry just run toward trouble, damn his hero complex? She could already imagine the rumours that would be circulating the following morning… Sometimes it _did_ look like Harry was trying to draw attention to himself.   

They followed Hagrid to the castle and, once Katie had been taken to the infirmary, followed by a very worried Professor McGonagall, Harry stopped to look at them very seriously.

“It was Malfoy,” he sentenced, clenching his fists furiously.

Ron made a very expressive worried face, which Hermione did not share outwardly, but fully supported.

“Leanne said that Katie had been given the necklace by _someone_ , but refused to say _who_ ,” Harry explained impatiently, and Hermione nodded. She had heard that. She assumed she must have been imperiused, as she would not have defended the secret so strongly if she had been merely confunded. “Malfoy must have imperiused her in the Three Broomsticks,” Hermione pressed her lips together at hearing the name again.

“Mate, I get the imperiused thing, I really do. But why would you say that Malfoy did it? Why would he bother doing that to Katie?” Ron tried to rationalize. He always started by agreeing with Harry, which was an excellent way to get him to truly listen. Hermione had not mastered that yet; and she did not have Ron’s affable tone or way with sympathetic words.

“I saw that necklace in Borgin and Burke’s, that day we followed Malfoy!” he insisted, excitedly, as if that somehow proved anything.

“Harry…” she started, but he must have recognised her tone of voice as the one she used when she was going to debate his ideas by being extremely reasonable; as he stopped her with a raised hand.

“I _know_ it was him! I’m going to tell McGonagall,” he announced, and quickly rushed toward the infirmary. 

Ron gave her a meaningful look and she sighed, then nodded, effectively telling him to go after Harry. She would not be what the boy needed at the moment; Ron always provided much better support. Still, she believed that being forced to see reason by Professor McGonagall would be much less pleasant than if she had taken care of that job.

* * *

She walked up the stairs –which seemed to be feeling sympathetic toward her feelings and were collaborating in taking her to the floor she had been aiming for– while considering Harry’s ideas once more. It was clear that what Harry had was not even circumstantial evidence; Malfoy had just happened to be, once, in the shop where he said the necklace had been purchased in. How could he not see that professors, or anyone else, needed more than his intuition before making a decision?

She huffed in obvious frustration. Even if he believed it had been Malfoy, and even if he was right, there were other ways to deal with that idea. Going to a professor with such half-assed occurrences would only help diminish his credibility. But, would he listen to her? No! Not until he had tried every other stupid idea that had come his way, until he completely run out. Then it would be all “Oh, Hermione, what should we do?”. 

She turned a corner and saw Parkinson walking with Bulstrode and a couple of younger Slytherin girls. She watched for an instant, and the other girl happened to turn her head at the same time. Their eyes met for barely a second, but the clear and neutral look she got reminded her of things that she did not feel like thinking about. Doubts and limits and censorship all twirled around in her mind.

How could Hogwart’s students not recognise the danger of directly touching a cursed person –and one cursed in such a very physical way, to boot –. How could they know so little about how to proceed in such a situation?

How could Harry defeat Voldemort if he did not know even that?

 


	4. Beast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violence starts in this one (and it will not be the last time), be warned.
> 
> Thanks for reading and for the feedback! I'm glad some people are enjoying this!

**Coven. Ch. 4: Beast**

She carefully closed the bathroom door behind her and breathed out deeply, allowing herself to tremble slightly; which she had carefully prevented in front of Greengrass. Her pretty roommate usually had good gossip; but that someone had imperiused Madame Rosmerta to give the Bell girl a cursed necklace… That was first class.

Not as much as actually knowing who had imperiused her, though.

She congratulated herself on having kept her composure after receiving the news. It would not do to have anyone be suspicious she knew more. It would not do to have  _Draco_  be suspicious she knew more. He had hit her once for asking what was wrong with him one too many times. What would he do to her for having witnessed his crime? That was attempted murder, they could charge him for. That was certain Azkaban –especially considering his father was already there.

She had her suspicions that, whatever Draco was doing, it had something to do with the Dark Lord himself. She had the certainty that Greg and Vince would be joining him right after school. She had a fairly good idea of which was her new spot in the food chain; an average witch from a not rich enough family with a father that had not openly supported the Dark Lord soon enough. It was a bit too close to the bottom for comfort.

With power, though… With power, it changed. Now, she had options. Now, for the first time, she had a real choice. She needed to convince Granger, though… and soon.

* * *

Hermione let the book drop from her hands and sighed heavily. It was just so very unspecific! How was anyone supposed to understand anything about a coven if the damned thing was so vague?

She was fairly sure she had somehow started a coven bond with Parkinson, but after reading the volume from beginning to end twice, she was not  _more_  certain than before. Hell, she was not even certain of which steps to follow if she ever –not that it would happen– wanted to form a coven. It was all just mentions of bonding in all of its existing synonyms, and then a real overuse of the word 'blood'. She was quite certain one was meant to drink it, and to offer it, and to draw with it, and to  _bathe_  in it. She just had no exact idea why, or when, or  _whose_  blood exactly.

How useless is an instruction book that does not contain clear instructions?

Well, she was not going to play with such obscure and dangerous magics anyway, so she supposed it did not matter.

* * *

Pansy had thought on how to best approach the subject extensively. She knew she had attacked the foundations of Granger's belief system; but she suspected the little push had not been enough to make them crumble. The little goody goody Gryffindor was too much the model student to change her viewpoint on rules without extensive help. And Pansy did not feel they had the time for  _extensive_.

She stalked her as discreetly as she could, waiting for an opening. She had deduced that ambushing her after Runes or after Arithmancy would be the best choice; they were subjects taught in more isolated parts of the castle than History, and her two lover boys would not be close to such classrooms even by chance.

Now, though, how to tempt her? Which keys should she press to make her take the bait? Through her attentive observation, she had deduced there were two things that truly made Granger's world move: desire for knowledge, and the need to prove herself.

She had already appealed to the first, more than once, but she was too  _bound_  by the impositions of society. Poking at the second might prove to be a better choice, but there was always the risk of the girl being too naïve for it to work properly.

Ah, there was her chance! She had just entered the girl's bathroom. She quickly followed her in, trying to supress the shudder that threatened to overcome her at the memory of the last time she had snuck into a restroom like that.

She found her looking at the mirror and harassing her untamed mane. She smirked with the satisfaction of seeing how attacks on her horrible hair had worked through the years: she was obviously conscious of it.

"You might as well just cut it, Granger," she drawled, "It would still be hideous, but at least in a much smaller size," she finished.

Granger turned around quickly and glowered. Well, maybe antagonizing her so pettily had not been the best opening. Oh, who was she kidding? They already hated each other, that would not make much of a difference.

"What the hell do you want now?" she demanded, obviously on the defensive. "You seem to be developing an obsession with following me, Parkinson," she noted, now slightly smug. "How unbecoming of a  _pureblood_ ," she spat the last word in disgust, as if that would somehow make the reality of the difference in their social status any less pronounced.

"You know what I want," she answered calmly, lifting an eyebrow with elegance.

That made the girl look even more guarded –and a tad confused, too. "Parkinson, I've told you already. I'm  _not_  going to do that with you. If you want it so desperately, look for someone else," she said with exasperation.

"I would, Granger. Believe me, I would," she snapped back. "But you and I already started this, and involving someone else when we might've an open connection would be a bad idea," she explained with little patience.

That seemed to pique her interest, and she could not clearly conceal it, even as she retorted, "And somehow you think that playing with a ritual we don't fully understand is  _not_  a bad idea?"

Pansy rolled her eyes. Of course it was a risk, she was not stupid, see could see that. But waiting for her father to pick a decent husband might be the bigger one, especially in such changing times. "We understand enough of it," she lied, knowing the truth would not sway her. "We did it once, it worked, no side effects. What else do you need?"

"Some spells, or rituals, might have adverse effects only when overused," she clarified. Damn, of course the little book-worm would know. She would bet her soul that there were plenty of books in Hogwarts that stressed on the dangers of using clearly advantageous magic. "This has all the potential to be a perfect example," she declared, unmovable.

Well, if she believed that so firmly, the scholar approach might not be the best. Time to try the 'It's useless to try to prove yourself' one.

"Don't you see, Granger, that playing by the book like this will never get you anywhere?" she started, only to introduce the topic she was aiming at.

Oh, she was mad now! Offended, most likely. Self-righteousness would be coming her way.

"What do you mean, Parkinson? What're you getting at?" So, she knew she was hinting at something else. Good, speaking with morons always got so very exhausting.

She laughed shrilly, for the sake of setting the right mood. "You believe you'll get anything you want if you only try hard enough," she said in a mocking tone. "That you can just go on, working hard, and you'll someday reach a position of power within the Ministry, somewhere from when you can change everything that is wrong in the world!" she finished, and gave her a paternalistic little laugh.

Granger just stared, fists clenched, mouth set in a grim line.

"But the world doesn't work like that," Pansy snapped suddenly, starting her. "You're a  _muggleborn_ ," she emphasized, careful to use the politically correct term, "and a woman, to boot. How many muggleborns are in the current government, Granger?" she asked. That made her open her eyes slightly, and Pansy knew she was touching a sore point. "You actually checked, didn't you?" she pressed, happily. "None! Not a single one! And the female to male ratio? What is it, huh? Ten percent? Twenty, at most?"

Granger was biting her lower lip, hurt etched all over her face. But she knew she would not be able to resist the temptation to answer a direct question to which she knew the answer, not matter how detrimental.

"Fifteen," she whispered, finally, pain in her voice.

"And, surely, all of them  _daughters_  of someone. And now, you must be thinking: well, that's why I should change that! It's wrong! Someone has to do something!"

Ah, how predictable the virtuous were.

"But, truth is, they won't let you. You'll never reach a position in which you'll be able to, because the people at the top don't want  _you_  there. They'll praise you, they'll smile at you, and all the while they'll be pushing you down."

Granger opened her mouth to stutter some comeback, but she cut her mercilessly.

"No, Granger! You won't change anything, just like all the other little brilliant muggleborns that shone a little too bright for their own sake. Where are they? Have you heard of any? Ever?" Damn, having to call her brilliant  _stung_. "See? You sure feel entitled to tell me that I'm not free, that I've to do whatever my father wants me to, whatever society has designed for me. But, truth is, you are no better." She licked her lips, now she was enjoying herself. "You'll end up in the front desk of some little dainty bookshop, or as secretary to a Ministry official, or just writing independent research that'll never receive the attention or funding it deserves. You, Granger, are  _not_  free either."

She finished her little speech and she knew they were both seeing the irony of the situation, in the parallelism it held to Granger's speech in the library. The difference was that Pansy had known, and even grown to accept, all of that –even if hearing it from a mudblood was still disagreeable–; while that gullible little child still held hope.

She was surprised to see quiet tears going down her cheeks, though her expression had gone strangely calm. Composed, even.

"And now's when you tell me that, with power, I can change that?" she asked, and Pansy frowned. Well, it  _was_  what she had been about to say. "And then, what?" she laughed, a harsh, humourless sound, "I overtake the Ministry and impose my own rule? I become the next  _Voldemort_?"

Pansy flinched at the name, and could tell Granger found it satisfying. She went red up to her ears, feeling  _judged_  for that little reflex.

"Whether you're right or not, Parkinson, I don't care," she stated, simply. "I'll work at my dainty bookshop, smile as I sell books to you and your perfect pureblood children, while your husband is busy doing more important things than school shopping; and you'll be the clear winner in the eyes of society," she admitted, slowly walking up to her. "But," she added, little cruel smirk on her lips, "both you and me, we'll know that  _I_ am the better witch," she whispered, her noses almost touching now. "And I'll learn to live with that."

She suddenly pulled away, so quickly she almost missed it, and in a second she was at the door.

"I'll  _never_ drink you blood again, Parkinson," she steadily announced, even as she was still crying.

She left closing the door so softly that Pansy found it slightly unsettling, after such a strong scene. She would have left with a  _bang_ , she thought, almost reprovingly.

Well, that had not worked. She turned to face the mirror and her reflection whispered ' _weak_ ' back at her. She frowned. Draco was a Death Eater. Potter had faced the Dark Lord now thrice. The war had already started, and she did  _not_  have time to waste.

* * *

Hermione woke up at twelve on a Sunday, for the first time since she had started attending Hogwarts. Pansy's words –truthful and so very painful– still haunted her at night.

She loved magic so much that it hurt; but the magical world kept on denying her. It first denied her recognition, now it was denying her knowledge, and one day it would certainly deny her equal rights.

But, bitter as it felt, power was not the solution. The world just needed people like Dumbledore, who would champion muggle rights and believe in people like her. It was a matter of time, she needed to have hope.

She headed for lunch and saw Ron shaking nervously on the bench, barely able to eat. She briefly searched for a reason in her recent memories and, when seeing Harry secretly holding the small vial of Felix Felicis, she gasped and rushed to the rescue.

Predictably, she was ignored, and still got a glare for her troubles. She was fuming! He was cheating, the idiot. He was cheating for something as  _meaningless_ as a Quidditch match, he was going as far as doing something  _illegal_ and he felt entitled to it!

She walked away in fury, thoughts of cheating and illegalities and blood magic and worthy causes swirling in her mind. ' _People cheat all the time_ ' an annoying voice that sounded just like Parkinson whispered sweetly inside her head. People cheated, even for reasons more meaningless, even with chances higher than hers. Ron cheated. Parkinson cheated. She could easily believe all Slytherins cheated. How could she complete while playing fair, if the people who already had an advantage had no such moral limitations?

' _You cannot compete,'_  the voice insisted. ' _That's the whole point_ ,' and it was an extremely unfair one. She was smarter than any of them, more powerful than any of them, more politically concerned and definitely way more just! If she just could be given an equal chance –not even an advantage, she did not need one– she could really make a difference, she knew that. But would they let her?

* * *

Pansy watched the game with feigned interest, her mind elsewhere. Blaise was playing chaser and they had all come to support him –or pretend to– in the freezing strong winds of November.

Theodore was cheering truthfully, shouting with energy even when the wind surely made it impossible for the players to hear. Still, she supposed they could see and appreciate the movement on the stands.

She watched Blaise watch the Weaselette, murder in his eyes, and sniggered at the knowledge that he had truly desired to go against her as a chaser once more. Oh, well, it was still better for them if she played seeker instead of Potter, as that meant they had lost the Golden Flyer  _and_  had a reserve on the field. But leave it to Blaise to focus on his bruised ego instead. She could almost swear he had a crush on the pretty red blood traitor, the way he was obsessed with her.

Theodore jumped in protest as Madame Hooch blew the whistle to indicate a fault against them. He sat back down grumping and calling her all manners of unflattering names, which made her giggle. At his other side, Daphne's silky voice giggled with far more grace as she patted him on the arm and complemented his occurrence coyly.

Theodore went slightly red at the unexpected praise, and Pansy glowered. Was the bitch flirting with him? And, worst of all, was it  _working_?

Daphne had not looked in Theodore's direction since their very first day of school, when she had obviously dismissed him after hearing his last name and associating it with a well-known Death Eater. Now though, the flow of the game was changing; and suddenly he was a much better catch.

If the Greengrasses were already opting for that side, the war must not be going in Dumbledore's favour. If the Dark Lord did not come to power, she guessed, then they would not step forward; it was way too risky, as they might find themselves associated with a very bad reputation. However, the moment he did, Daphne might already have Theodore enthralled. It was a good move, truly, even if it hurt to admit it.

Well, what truly hurt was that the Greengrasses were much wealthier than the Parkinsons, and no matter what Theo's father had been considering, the moment Daphne's father approached him the battle would be lost.

The crowd cheered loudly and she briefly glanced back to the game. Slytherin-Gryffindor matches always had the fiercest rivalry, and the whole school seemed to be in attendance. She could see her little mudblood swot giving her all at cheering, seated next to the Longbottom failure.

Granger held the key to her success. She was not pretty enough to catch a good husband, and she was not rich enough for her father to guarantee one, and no matter how much she flirted once girls like Greengrass entered the game she was automatically out.

Oh, but with Granger in, the pieces changed. She no longer needed to catch a good husband if she could actually get the husbands to try and catch her. Dear Daphne could keep playing, but she could not see the board.

With Granger, with  _power_ , she did not need to struggle to keep the best out of the leftovers; she could just waltz in and take what she wanted.

* * *

Harry cheered amongst his fellow Gryffindors, almost not even minding that he had not gotten to play. The brief memory of Snape's purposeful punishment was enough to make him feel sullen once more, but he brushed it aside. The jerk did not deserve to ruin his evening.

He could hear Ron whooping somewhere in the common room and he laughed at how  _brilliant_  his best mate had been. He had known he needed but a bit of confidence, and then he would be just fine.

He turned around and saw Ginny and Dean desperately clinging to each other, and his stomach suddenly turned. He swallowed hard, as if his mouth had somehow gone dry in a second, and felt the absurd need to just get there and forcefully pull the prick away from his… his best mate's little sister, yes. It was just not right, that they were kissing like that so publicly. Dean was not respecting Ginny at all!

A sudden flash of wild curls in the distance helped him take his eyes away from Ginny's vivid red, and he made to go after Hermione. He had been severely admonished by her, but now she would have to admit it had been a good idea. Ron had needed support, not more scolding. She always tended to be a bit too harsh on him; which hurt him deeply. It was obvious he was harbouring quite a crush, as he had been in a bad mood ever since Ginny had declared Hermione had kissed Krum over the summer. He just hoped they made up soon; it was hard to have to pick a side like that.

He had almost reached her when he saw the ugliest expression of  _disgust_  he had ever seen on her face. Her eyes and mouth were agape and her lower lip was trembling. She looked utterly… betrayed, he realized, as his own eyes followed her gaze.

He flinched at the sight of Lavender Brown  _eating_  his friend's mouth as if she actually needed it to stay alive. That had not been a smart move, he decided. Hermione had been complaining about Lavender since their first year! Did Ron not remember?

He probably did, as Hermione  _still_  complained about her, though apparently she had become less cruel through the years. He supposed it did not matter much, to Ron, who it was, as long as someone liked him. He could understand that he had gotten a little bit frustrated about Hermione, but still… Lavender?

Hermione just bolted from the room as fast as she could, and he was sure he had seen tears shining in her eyes. Harry looked back at Ron with a frown and darted after her.

* * *

Hermione was crying so hard she could barely see where she was going. She could not believe the nerve of that arsehole! She could not! How dare he! How _dare_  he backstab her like that?! She had always been there for them, she had always supported them, she would have  _never_  hurt Ron in such a way.

Oh, and he had had the gall of calling  _her_  a traitor when she had gone to the Yule Ball –to dance, not to snog anyone senseless in public– with Viktor, and  _he_  had never done anything to either Ron or Harry!

But this? How was this not fucking snogging her enemy? Lavender! Fucking Lavender Brown! The girl who had made her first year at Hogwarts a bloody nightmare! The girl who still sniggered and pointed at her and made up foolish rumours, the girl who could still make her feel like a defenceless first year.

She brushed away the tears furiously, running like mad through the corridors, not even knowing where to.

She was just so very angry. She had never been that angry in her life. She could almost feel the rage simmering, vibrating under her skin, overflowing and oozing through her pores. She wanted to hit something, to  _destroy_  something, to completely and utterly obliterate  _all of them_  from the face of the Earth.

How dare they? How dare they all make her feel like this when she had always but  _given_  to them? How could they betray her without any concern? How could they dismiss her so easily! Oh, she would teach them. She would show them what she could do when she was–

She felt the arm around her waist just an instant before being roughly shoved down to the ground, yelping at the sudden pain. Her wand was yanked from her pocket and a door was quickly locked and she barely had time to register that those spells had been muttered in a female voice, that she was already bound with magical ropes, her arms tied to the back of a chair.

She whimpered in pain and started to thrash around but her bindings were far too tight, and there was just no way she could free herself when they were magical. Tears were still falling down her face, but she could not tell if it was because she was still upset, or just scared out of her mind.

She struggled to see in the darkness and heard a silencing charm being casted. She was trapped, and at somebody else's mercy, and it was absolutely terrifying. What would they do to her? Would she  _die_ , there, in Hogwarts? Would she be found, strapped and mutilated, inside a deserted, dusty classroom? She felt the tears come back with more vigour, but no sound was escaping her constricted throat. Would she be tortured? Were Death Eaters inside–

"Parkinson?!" she screamed with disbelief. What the hell?

"Granger," she returned coolly, as if they had just met each other in the middle of a busy corridor.

"What are–?" but she cut herself mid-sentence because it was just bloody obvious. She struggled once more, uselessly, as she waited for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.

"Ah, you were always a smart little girl," Parkinson praised, seemingly pleased. "Having to elaborate on the obvious is just annoying," she commented, getting close enough that Hermione could finally see the knife in her hand.

She swallowed hard, and only the knowledge that Parkinson needed her alive kept her from screaming.

"Parkinson, don't do this," she begged. "It's madness, can't you see? Your thirst for power is turning you into some kind of… of  _monster_ ," her voice got more frantic as the other girl kept getting closer, "You wouldn't have done that before, just think about it," she pleaded pitifully.

"Wrong," she growled with a fierceness she had not expected, given her previously serene demeanour. "I've  _always_  been like this, Granger," she told her. "I just happen to have a good reason to act, right now."

As Parkinson straddled her in one smooth and quick movement, she realized she might have underestimated her. She had always been at Malfoy's beck and call, yes, but now she thought she must have done it only while she thought it served her purposes.

She kicked and she thrashed and she furiously flailed her arms so hard the binds scraped her skin. Parkinson had set her whole weight on her legs and, from her uncomfortable position on the ground, she could not use them to strike her.

"It'll barely hurt, Granger," she said. "Stay still, or I might cut more than you want."

Hermione did not listen, completely determined to not make it easy on her. She could cut away her whole arm for all she cared; she would rather bleed to death than submit.

"You know, this would've never happened if you'd been more powerful," Parkinson felt the need to cut her with words before clasping one of her hands strongly to keep it extended and bringing the knife to her palm.

Hermione cried in agony as she felt the burning pain of her flesh being cut open, and thrashed around harder, making Parkinson swear and yell at her to stop once more.

Right after that, she felt the handle of the knife being pressed on her still bleeding hand and Parkinson's hands closed over her own while she used the weapon to cut herself. Hermione still had the time to wonder if it would work, if it was Parkinson cutting herself through another person's hand, and determined that it might. It's not like they had intended to cut each other in the library, and it still had worked.

Parkinson stared at her own bleeding hand with a fascination that nobody should have been feeling in that situation, and just in time Hermione remembered to close her mouth shut, turning her head around.

The other girl huffed, but did not let that minor drawback hold her down. Hermione was starting to believe she would not let  _anything_  hold her down.

Parkinson's still whole hand pressed her nose shut, and Hermione struggled again, knowing she would end up losing but not prepared to give up. After a few excruciating seconds she had to gasp for air, and right then the bleeding hand was shoved on her mouth and she felt the metallic taste of blood and she chocked and coughed and actually feared she would suffocate.

Parkinson's mouth was on her still bound hand and she could feel the wetness of her tongue  _licking_ at her wound before she had the time to try and clench her fingers into a fist.

Suddenly, her whole body burnt. The hands on her face receded and she breathed and gasped and coughed some more but it suddenly did not even matter because she felt  _glorious_. There was  _raw power_  flowing through her veins, warm and tingling and almost  _orgasmic_.

She heard Parkinson  _moan_  out loud and she almost returned the sound, breathing hard now, her eyes going blank along with her mind. How could she feel like every inch of her body was on fire and, at the same time, like she was being embraced and soothed and encompassed by a softness surely reserved only to the Gods?

She spasmed in pure pleasure and her wrists felt the constraint and she just pulled and it banished as if it had never been there. She opened her eyes, still seeing white, and this time she did groan out loud as her magic sang and danced and completely overflowed her. There was nothing, nothing in the world that could feel like that; she just knew. It was like the sex described in her most raunchy books, only a hundred times better.

She struggled to sit up, not due to the pain, but due to the pleasure flooding her senses. She saw Parkinson on her knees, arms extended, looking up with her eyes closed as if she had seen  _the light_. Still, it was not a holy feeling she emanated, whole face covered in blood spatters and mouth actually painted in it, just as her open palms.

She looked at her own, also bloody all the way down to her wrists, though no wound was there anymore. Her uniform was also spotted with red drops, and there was a full swipe across her chest. She guessed her face did not look any better.

She shakily stood up, not used to the new energy contained within her, and kept on staring at her hands as if on trance. Good, it felt so unbelievably good. How could something so bestial, so violating, so very  _dark_ , feel so  _good_? So  _right_?

"This is so  _wrong_ ," she whispered, her voice quivering with mirth, raising her hands up high and still staring, marvelled.

* * *

Pansy let the buzzing feeling of power flow through her veins, eyes closed in order to focus on it more intensely. Oh, how she had  _coveted_  this, what she wouldn't give to never stop feeling it. She was on fire and, instead of burning her, it kissed her, and caressed her and slowly  _made love_  to her.

She heard Granger whisper, "This is so  _wrong_ ," and her eyes snapped open. She was standing there, blood on her face, and her hair and her hands and her clothes, as if she had just  _mutilated_  someone and came out unscathed; and kept staring at her open palms, mesmerised.

She stood, empowered, strong, worthy; and she almost fell back on her knees, all those new sensations making her dizzy. She held on, and took one step toward her.

"It's  _power_ , Granger," she screamed gutturally, bestial grin on her lips, "Just  _Power_! Magic knows no right or wrong; no black or white. Magic just  _is_ ," she emphasized, drunk on it. "And all classifications are just an  _opinion_. Why do you think Unforgivables are unforgivable?" she asked, now in a rough whisper. "Because there are people out here who believe themselves to be in the  _right_  to forgive you!"

She laughed maniacally at that, the divine sensation of raw magic flowing through her veins completely mind blowing. Granger had been awoken from her awed trance and looked at her, breathing hard, expectant.

"But now, Granger, it is  _us_  who decide who deserves forgiveness!" she shouted, "It is  _us_ who dictate what is right and what is wrong, and what is black and what is white!" she srceamed, looking her straight in the eyes.

Granger just looked back, eyes wide, expression blank. It was the weirdest feeling, to have left her speechless. Pansy just laughed out loud again, completely high on magic. She turned around suddenly and raised her hand toward a chair at the furthest corner of the room and just  _willed_  it to explode, tiny splinters and chips quickly filling up the air after one very loud BANG!

She would  _never_  be average again.

* * *

Harry tried once more to open the door, in vain. No spell he knew could get through it, and so he assumed either Hermione  _really_  did not want to be bothered, or a professor had locked that one. Still, the former was more likely, since he just could not find her anywhere.

Hermione was certainly not the fastest runner around, so she could not have gone far. However, with the many turns and stairs that castle had, there were just too many places to check.

He briefly wondered if he should go and get the Marauder's map, but decided against it after a few seconds. He was pretty sure she was behind that door –he had a gut feeling–, and that meant that not only would he not be able to get inside anyway, she probably just wanted to be alone at the moment. Hermione generally dealt with her issues in that way: first she would isolate herself to think and analyse the situation, and then she would allow others to get close.

It was probably better to just wait until the following morning. After all, this was  _Hermione_  he was talking about. She would be fine.


	5. Back

**Coven. Ch. 5: Back**

Hermione scrubbed away the blood with violence, tinting the white tiles of the shower floor red. She was furious. She was raving mad. She felt like she could have just gone out into the common room and crucioed anyone who crossed her path of utter destruction to the dungeons. To  _her_.

She knew she could have gotten all the grime off with a spell, but she  _needed_  to scrub in order to truly feel clean, and in order to get rid of all that rage. She stopped only when she felt she was about to scratch into her scalp, and reluctantly left the comfort of the scalding water.

Parkinson had taken care of scourgifying the dusty classroom, and she hoped nobody found it strange that it was now all squeaky clean despite its abandoned state. She hoped nobody knew a spell to detect blood, like it was done with luminol and ultraviolet light in the muggle world. She hoped Dumbledore could not detect that sudden outburst of magic –because it must have been monstrous– and connect it to them. To her. She hoped none of her roommates woke up and found it strange that she had occupied the bathroom for hours in the middle of the night. And, most of all, she hoped she had not crossed a point of no return.

Was that absolute bliss she was feeling right now what people on drugs felt? Because she thought she finally could understand why they just  _could not_  stop.

She felt wondrous, powerful, unstoppable.

And, most unexpected of all, she did not feel  _alone_.

That was not only her magic, flowing inside of her; Parkinson's sweeter, denser energy was there too, intimately mingling with hers. She felt like it was both of them, standing there in that shower; like no matter where she was, she would be there with her too.

If only she had truly been, so that she could punch her pug face in! And then keep her close to her skin and feel all that sparkling, bubbling, sizzling magic  _forever_.

She hissed in frustration. She was not sure if she wanted to throttle her or  _hug_  her. Her thoughts went from one idea to the other erratically and without warning.

She thought about how she had attacked her so viciously, how she had covered her nostrils and made her drink blood to the point of asphyxiating her; and she  _hated_  her for it. And then she remembered how she had kneeled as if in prayer, and how she had blasted that old chair with barely a thought, and the raw power she had emanated; and she wanted to be  _drunk_  in it once more.

She went out after what seemed like hours –and possibly had been– and laid on her bed for lack of a better thing to do while she waited for morning to come. She could not possibly sleep in that state of extreme awareness, and she was much too restless to enjoy some fiction reading. After a few minutes of her whole body itching to do something, she stood again and took her Runes homework. She drew the curtains shut and focused on deciphering pages and pages, until the sun peeked slightly above the horizon right before seven.

She dressed and went for breakfast, still restless, wondering if she should have just gone for a run in order to get a little tired. The castle seemed lifeless at that hour, though in an enticing, dreamlike way. The morning sun was starting to filter through all windows, casting long shadows shaped as columns, lattice windows and intricate capitals.

The Great Hall seemed no less empty, though darker, as it was showing the sky at the zenith. There were only a few Hufflepuffs, getting ready for some Quidditch practice before class; and Luna sitting alone in the Ravenclaw table.

She waved and went to sit by her side, thinking she could probably enjoy the distraction. She felt strangely hungry, considering she also felt very invigorated, and quickly filled her plate with eggs and bacon and all sorts of food she would have usually frowned at. She had just pushed a forkful of beans into her mouth when she raised her head to find Luna's attention completely focused on her. With her silvery eyes –too big for her small face– fixed on her and the usually vague expression on that very pale visage; she was as unnerving as ever.

"Something wrong?" Hermione asked, her heart skipping a beat at her own question.

Luna smiled sweetly, and shook her head, "Just because something is different, it doesn't mean that it's wrong," she assured her.

Hermione swallowed slightly too quickly and went for some juice, discomfited. Could Luna truly feel she was different? Well, Luna always seemed to have a particular perception of the world, and she often had to wonder how much was fantasy and how much was true insight.

"How's the OWL year going?" Hermione asked, eager to change the topic.

Luna shrugged, "I'm looking forward to dropping a couple subjects next year," she kind of answered the question. "And Runes is getting interesting."

Hermione agreed vehemently at that. Runes was one of her absolute favourite subjects, even though none of her fellow Gryffindors was taking it, and so she generally lacked someone to talk about it to. "Have you started on Mermish yet?" she inquired, and Luna shook her head once more. "It's one of the best, you'll love it. Their gender concept is truly quite intriguing, and the way they conjugate reflexive verbs is fascinating."

"Isn't it curious, how we consider Mermish a Rune, when it's a live language?" Luna just wondered out loud. "A bit rude to them, too."

Hermione frowned slightly and had to admit that she had a point. Calling another language  _Ancient_  Runes might be slightly rude… She was quite sure that, had it been a human language, they would not be studying it in under that particular subject; along with Mayan and Egyptian –and even a primitive British form of magic– runic spells. After all, they were not studying Japanese or Chinese traditional written spelling.

They fell into a rather comfortable silence –Luna was never uncomfortable in silences, but she did have a gift for discomfiting others– and Hermione just focused on eating eagerly. A few minutes later, she felt her magic hitch, as if something was yanking at it from the edges of her consciousness and, as she raised her head toward the pulling sensation, her eyes met with Parkinson's.

The other girl stopped and they locked eyes for a few seconds that took their breaths away, being aware of nothing else but each other. Then she felt Luna brush her arm softly, looking concerned, and she came back to the real world with a start, suddenly realizing her mouth had been wide open. She blushed, still strangely aware of the other girl, as if there was something permanently flickering in the corner of her eye.

Luna was now looking in Parkinson's direction with a certain curiosity, like the one she displayed when Hagrid came by with a creature she had never seen with her own eyes before. She followed her all the way to the Slyhterin table and, as Parkinson stole another quick glance in their direction, she just gave a simple, "I see," and Hermione did not dare ask what it was that she saw.

* * *

Pansy sat down and focused on her food –Circe, she was  _starving_  like a peasant– consciously ignoring the looks Greengrass and Theodore were giving her. That had been, at best, unladylike. She could not believe she had just stared at Granger like… like she was in  _love_  or some such nonsense. And bloody Queen Bee had witnessed it! Rumours would be flying in a matter of minutes. With a mute swear, she realized Greengrass had to know she had been missing for  _hours_  the previous night; having not returned to the Common Room after the Quidditch match. She had hoped to intercept Granger in her way back to the Gryffindor Tower, only to run into her while she was actually walking  _away_  from it. To make matters worse, she had not returned until at least midnight, having stopped by the Prefects' Bathroom to try and feel clean again.

And to use her newly recovered wandless magic to play with bubbles in the bath, though she would  _never_  admit to that out loud.

She could imagine just what sort of tripe was occupying Daphne's thoughts. If it had not been for the others, she might have decided to  _obliviate_  her. But, more than one person at once was way too risky.

She was still trying to come to terms with the way it felt to have Granger just be close to her –and quite a few meters away, still– as her magic seemed to be reaching out to her. Part of her actually wanted to get closer, crazy as it sounded. She felt an almost irresistible urge to glance at her again, but repressed it firmly. It would not do to make another blunder in front of her housemates.

She ate with moderation and decided to pay a visit to the kitchen afterwards, as everyone's attention seemed too focused on her to keep on acting in an unusual manner. She half expected another questioning from Theodore, and felt her chances at catching the big fish were slimming down. Well, if she played her cards well, the big fish would end up begging at her feet. And bloody Daphne too, if she had any say in it.

Suddenly, hot rage filled her insides and she had to fight in order to keep her food from going the wrong way. She started, angry but not quite at the same time, as if she was feeling the emotion through a thin veil.

Her eyes darted to Granger once more, only to see her glowering fiercely –such intensity in her expression! Not even once had she managed to get that violent a reaction from her, and she had called her  _very mean_  names– in the direction of the Gryffindor table. She followed her gaze and saw Golden Potty along with some other irrelevant do-gooders, and then the Brown girl on top of Weasley doing… Oh, sweet Circe, Merlin, Mother Gaia and Snape in Longbottom's Grandmother's Drag! That was disgusting! Was she trying to eat him? Had she lost something of great value in the depths of his throat? Did she want to choke him to death? Was she doing the world a favour by erasing his freckles through friction?

"Oh, my, that is unbecoming," Daphne downplayed while Theodore grimaced. Well, with a little bit of luck that display would take over as top rumour of the day.

"Is she a Dementor in disguise?" Theodore asked out loud, and Pansy chuckled but still thought  _hers_  were better.

She could still somehow feel –or more like, be aware of– Granger's fury, and that caused her confusion. Not the fact that she was aware of it, that was clearly a side effect of their bond, and not a terribly horrid one. Even if it meant her emotions might be on display, and she found that rather distasteful, she had heard of side effects of blood magic that would make the Dark Lord queasy. No; what confused her was  _what_  Granger was mad about. Surely she did not have a crush on  _Weasley_ , of all people! Even Potter might have been better than that!

Though, that would explain both the intense glaring, the apologetic glances Potter kept throwing in her general direction, and why she was sitting next to Loony Lovegood in the Ravenclaw table.

Well, good thing Weasley did not like her back, then; if she had to spend the rest of her life regularly visiting Granger, she would rather not have Mr. Freckles around.

* * *

Hermione stomped away from the Great Hall without looking back at her supposed friends, heading to Charms early. She had actually forgotten all about Ronald's betrayal due to the previous night's events, but now the anger was coming back with a vengeance.

That, and the fact that seeing Parkinson seemed to be doing weird things to her insides. What had that look they had shared been about? It had felt like her very soul had tried to come out of her body to meet her.

It was maddening, that after having been all but  _violated_  by her, that weird feeling of yearning had overpowered her rage.

She sat at the back of the classroom, far from all Gryffindors, and Garcia joined her after a few minutes, looking curious. "Another fight with Ginger and Perfect?" she asked. Hermione nodded. "Well, that must have been a record. You usually have only one or two, and more evenly distributed throughout the school year."

Hermione scowled. "Is the whole school aware of that?" she complained, not having realized they were so very obvious, and drew so much attention.

Garcia gave her a look that clearly said she was stupid just for asking, and she pouted. "What was it about this time?" she asked, looking ahead at Professor Flitwick intently as he walked into the room.

"Did you come in to breakfast late?" she asked, and Garcia answered, "I skipped," to which Hermione just nodded. "You'll see, then. I don't want to spoil the surprise," she said, grouchily.

Parkinson walked into the classroom and, instantly aware of each other, their eyes met briefly once more. Hermione mouthed " _hold back_ " and glared at her, and she turned as if nothing had happened, but she assumed she would. At least minimally. Or she would bash her pug-face against the ground!

Hermione marvelled at how very easily the non-verbal aguamenti came to her, even though she pretended to struggle. By her side Garcia scribbled onto her parchments arithmantic calculations that, now Hermione realized, were looking for numerical equivalents to the particular spell-casting. She peeked to see how she dealt with a non-verbal one, but her slanted and quick calligraphy was too hard to follow sideways. Well, no wonder she always scribbled and then practiced –often with good results. She was doing the assigned work, even if in her own way. She was  _dying_  to know if it also worked when dealing with non-verbals. But,  _oh!_  to have to ask Garcia for her notes… She did not know if she could deal with the smugness the Hufflepuff would radiate the whole time.

She searched for Parkinson, who was producing a very feeble dribble from the end of her wand, with visible effort. She assumed it was effort at holding back; she seemed to not be very good at that. Professor Flitwick seemed to be excited, though, at her partial success.

And, she noted, Nott seemed to be paying attention to her movements with a glint of suspicion in his eyes.

* * *

Cornering Parkinson was not proving to be easy, as she seemed to be surrounded by fellow snakes at all times. At first she had thought she was doing it on purpose, in order to avoid a confrontation, but if she gazed in Parkinson's direction she was able to feel a twinge of irritation coming from her; and she realized she might actually be the one unable to shake them off.

That theory would fit in nicely with the way Nott had been looking at her. After her misstep that morning, and having publicly seated by her side in Potions once, she must have drawn unnecessary attention.

She might have to wait for Parkinson to approach her, but she had a feeling that might not happen until their power rush started to fade once more, and only if she managed to escape the eyes of her housemates.

Having nothing better to do other than wait for a better opportunity while she watched the Slytherins work in a far corner of the library, she joined her new usual table –with Garcia and Charity– and eagerly got to her own work, dotting her i's with a furious stabbing, picturing Parkinson's face on the parchment.

Conniving –one dot–, little –two–, wench –third and vicious enough to pierce through–. She had stopped giving herself the usual mental self-chastising for language; the situation the past few months had been dire enough to warrant some verbal venting inside the privacy of her own mind. Generally aimed at Parkinson, she had noticed.

She had many more colourful adjectives, all learned through more than five years spent next to Ron –bloody wanker!– and, to a lesser extent, Harry. She continued to write with fury as she thought of her irritable face, her sweet and poisoning words, her mad, crackling laugh and the feeling of being bound and straddled and forced to betray all her moral principles.

She breathed out, hard, and raised her head to glare once more at the other table. She met two pairs of worried Hufflepuff eyes instead.

"Are you all right?" Charity asked carefully, and Hermione blushed slightly when she realized her homework was now full of tiny holes and splotches of ink.

"Ginger's not worth it," Garcia chimed in, and Charity must have kicked her under the table for the directness, since she immediately yelped.

"So, I see you found out in the end," she commented in a crisp tone.

Garcia nodded, "On my way to the toilet after Charms. Lucky thing, since I was able to use the trip to throw up," she added, making a face.

That tricked a laugh out of Hermione. "They're  _very_  explicit," she agreed, grimacing.

"McGonagall actually took twenty points from Gryffindor for 'such an inappropriate display'. And you know how she feels about taking points from her own house," Charity added. "Still, and not to sound rude like Victoria, I do believe you can do much, much better."

Garcia nodded, not caring much about being called rude, and Hermione felt slightly better at the support. "I don't care that Ronald's dating someone else," she said, and at their briefly interchanged glace, she insisted, "No, really. Not anymore. I had this silly crush on him for the longest time, and he didn't even realize I was a girl! In time, I don't know, I guess it just kind of died out," she explained.

Charity nodded in understanding, encouraging her. Garcia looked dubious.

"I don't think it would truly bother me now, if he just dated another girl. Sure, I imagine I would feel a stab at someone else deserving an attention I was apparently not good enough for, but that's all. It'd pass, too, with time," she explained. "What truly bothers me is that it's  _Lavender_ ," she spat out the name with revulsion.

"Brown's name is Lavender?" Garcia interrupted, suddenly looking shocked. "Lavender Brown? How can  _brown_  be  _lavender_? It's like you are saying, I don't know, 'aquamarine blue'; but just  _wrong_. What were her parents thinking?" she asked in half-horror, half-pity.

"If they're like her, then it's likely they weren't thinking much," Hermione pointed out bitterly.

"You were saying, Hermione, that what bothers you is Lavender," Charity reminded her, slapping Garcia's arm for interrupting without even looking at her.

"Yes! She's awful! Been awful since my very first day, laughing behind my back, and calling me know-it-all and bucket-teethed bookworm and the like," she complained. "And mimicking the way I rise my hand in class, putting furry old jumpers around her head as if to look like my hair…" she kept on, voice weaker now and eyes glistening. How could Ron be doing that to her?

"He's dating your bully?" Charity asked, gobsmacked. "What in Merlin's Pants?"

"Arsehole," Garcia contributed.

"And that's not all! She's absolutely stupid, can't think about anything else besides boys, fashion and divination!"

"Divination!?" Garcia interjected once more, "Say no more! You've convinced me. I hate her too."

Charity glowered at her. "How can you say that? You decide which food you eat in every meal based on the plates that have a number of pieces that's a multiple of seven!" she exclaimed in indignation.

"Not only seven," Garcia corrected. "Any good number. Else, it would be too limited. Also, I do not see the relation between the two topics, Chari dearest."

"You decide which homework you will do first based on which has the number of assigned lines closer to the minute of the current hour! You don't find guys attractive unless there is at least one seven in their birthdate! You only go to the beach on July! How is all of this not  _divination_  based on numbers?" Charity asked, incensed.

"It's not," the other girl defended, "It's arithmancy."

Charity rolled her eyes very expressively and dropped the topic at once, returning her attention the Hermione.

"Drop all of this work immediately," she ordered in that motherly tone she generally used on her best friend. "You're not in your full capacity today, Hermione. We'll go out to the Great Lake and you'll vent about this girl until you are satisfied."

"But it's November!" Garcia complained with alarm.

"You can't go to the Lake if it's not July either?" Hermione asked curiously.

"Of course I can!" the girl answered, giving her a confused look, as if she had just said the most unexplainable nonsense. "It's just bloody cold!" she clarified; and then grumbled as she picked up her stuff, muttering something that sounded a lot like "Weird English people".

* * *

Whatever was going on with Pansy, it clearly had to do with Granger. If it were not for his absolute certainty that she would rather set herself on fire than even consider touching a mudblood, he could have sworn they were actually fucking. He snorted out loud at the ludicrous idea. And then shuddered at the thought of Granger naked. Surely imagining that was somehow equivalent to  _zoofilia_.

He looked up to share the joke with Blaise and noticed he was throwing glances at Tracey, which were being definitely well received. He rolled his eyes. He had to agree with Pansy on that one, honestly; how many times did you have to play the same game before getting tired? There were plenty of half-bloods around if his friend wanted to get laid, no need to always go back to the same one.

"I'm going to start thinking you actually like this one, Blaise," he commented pointedly.

Blaise turned to him and narrowed his eyes furiously. "Don't even joke with that," he warned with menace; but Theo was much too used to his pride and moods to be bothered.

"I'll give you the same advice you gave me: don't give people the wrong ideas," he suggested with a curled half-smile.

"No one who matters would get the wrong idea," Blaise scoffed. "Hogwarts is all fun and games, my friend," he said with smugness, "use this time to enjoy yourself before you end tied up to some dreary wife and a family business."

Theodore huffed. That was not his style. He would not sully himself with any flirty half-blood bint with ideas above her station; and pureblood girls were untouchable until marriage, if they were smart enough to see what was good for them. That left patiently waiting until his father put a willing –or mostly willing– bride on his lap. Hopefully not Greengrass; she had high-maintenance and 'don't touch me anymore once I've given you an heir' written all over her face.

Still, the girl was pretty, he had to admit. He supposed the whole Voldemort rising thing had put the Grengrasses plans on hold; and now they were opening to all possible options. How very ironic, that the mark –and leash– he did not want would make him a desirable match.

Blaise stood and walked over to Tracey –fucking great– and he was left alone to consider his options. There were not so many pureblood girls, after all. Greengrass was out, and younger Greengrass seemed to have her eyes set on Draco; with real options, too. Millicent he would not touch with a stick, thank you very much; and Pansy… Pansy was fine enough, ruthless and without the excess of saccharine Daphne seemed to have engrained in her voice; but she was not… Well, he did not think himself as vain as Blaise, but Pansy was not very pretty. Not like she was ugly, not really; and sometimes the way she carried herself definitely exuded a certain eroticism… But he did not think he could bring himself to spend the rest of his life with someone as bossy and shrill as Pansy if she was not at least easier to look at.

He turned his face to look at the younger girls, who were giving him coy looks now that he had been left alone –he really had been upgraded to  _top goods_ – when Pansy happened to enter the room. Millicent and Goyle –he was most certain Crabbe and Goyle were on strict watch duty for the Dark Lord, and so it was of vital importance to be careful around them– were following her, watchful.

Millicent had been informed of her engagement to Greg a few days before, and seemed to be taking her duties as fiancée very seriously. He did not doubt for a second that her friendship with Tracey had already officially ended. The question now would be if she would go as far as spying on Pansy –her best friend– if she was ordered to.

Blaise returned to his side, carefully blank mask on place. Tracey had disappeared off to her room, and he wondered if seeing Millicent had reminded her of the way the world truly worked. In any case, maybe she and Blaise would not get together once more.

Pansy stomped tensely in their direction, her two guards seemingly satisfied now that she was back in the common room. She glared at Blaise's knowing smirk and sat down in front of them, mouth set in a grim line.

"How's the babysitting feeling, Pans?" Blaise provoked.

"Bad enough that I have to resort to sitting with  _you_. How's the half-blood hunt going, by the way?" she answered, and Theo smiled at his friend's pouting. "See? Nobody gets to do what they want anymore, apparently."

Theo tensed at that, and dropped his stretched pose to approach her, sitting on the edge of the couch and whispering tightly. "Watch what you say, Pansy," he advised, not having believed her so foolish. If she kept that up, she would get herself hurt and, desirable bride or not, Pansy had been around to lighten up the mood since he could remember. He cared for her.

Her recent erratic behaviour and returned tendency to snap at people –important people– rudely and without thinking would get her into trouble. It felt like she had lost whatever small filter she had managed to construct in the previous years; and right at the moment that was equivalent to social suicide. Well, no; actually, very real, very literal suicide.

Pansy looked back at him in an expression so calm it almost convinced him that she actually knew what she was doing. "I am, Theo. I am."

* * *

It took three whole days, but by some twist of fate that made Bulstrode sick on the stomach at the same time she was on her monthly, they met in the Infirmary. Parkinson had accompanied her friend while she was receiving painkillers from Madame Pomfrey, and as the bigger girl threw up on the floor Parkinson jerked her head in the general direction of the closest bathroom.

She discreetly followed her, wand already clenched tightly, while Parkinson threw a notice-me-not around them. Once inside she locked the door and the other girl silenced the room, and then they both speedily turned around, wands set on each other.

"How could you!" she screeched like a banshee, "How could you do that to me!"

"I did it for power," she answered steadily, hand not shaking one bit, "and you should be grateful for it."

"You choked me!" she shouted, disbelievingly, "On blood!" she exclaimed ever louder, not lowering her wand. How dare she say she should be  _grateful_?

" _Almost_ ," Parkinson corrected calmly.

That made her break. She attacked with barely a twitch of her wand, throwing a powerful stunning spell. Parkinson deflected it without a problem, and threw a body bind back. Hermione used a non-verbal  _protego_  while throwing a bat-bogey hex that would have made Ginny proud, hidden behind another stunner.

Parkinson defended against both but was thrown off balance by the unexpectedness of the second; she was not used to duelling, unlike Hermione. She took the chance and sliced her twice –cheek and upper arm– before the other girl could recover enough to dodge. Oh, it felt  _great_  to tear her up, the sight of that red, red blood flowing out again. This time, though, on  _her_  terms.

They exchanged furious blows until Parkinson was covered in gashes and bruises, little hit by little hit, her spells not as precise and effective as Hermione's; her  _protegos_  not as whole. However, that made her more determined, and after a frustrated whine, she left herself suicidally open to another slicing hex in order to bet it all on offense, and fired an  _expulso_  so very intense it still blew Hermione onto the wall despite the multiple shielding charms she had conjured.

She gasped at the strong hit but kept her shields up while Parkinson used the opportunity to attack relentlessly. She panicked slightly at the sheer force of the onslaught and she voiced strongly " _Lacarnum Inflamarae_!"

The resulting huge fireball startled her opponent, but was extinguished soon enough by an explosively disproportionate torrent of water coming out of Parkinson's wand, like a bloody waterfall; the recoil of which blasted the caster away, and the force of impact of the water pressed Hermione more firmly onto her wall.

When Parkinson managed to control her wand once more, after the disorientation of being blown away, the bathroom was flooded with so much water it almost reached their breasts, in their seated position. Hot vapour, from the fireball's contact with the spell, filled the room in a dense fog. They were both breathing heavily, bruised and sopping wet, their hair plastered to their skin and, in Parkinsons case, bleeding rather heavily.

The girl had incredible force in her spells, she noted, though she clearly lacked control; and would possibly get tired too quickly, with that unrestrained casting. However, she had made one scary opponent. She could not get that image, of her throwing away the shields and taking that slicing head on, out of her head.

"Why go to such extremes for power?" she could not help but ask softly, desperately, in the silence broken only by the water dripping and dribbling everywhere.

"There's a war coming," she whispered back, strangely calm after that explosive demonstration. "You know that, don't you?"

Hermione frowned. Of course she knew, but why would the other girl be worried about it? "And  _you_  are on the dangerous side, Parkinson," she retorted. What did she have to fear? Dumbledore would not hurt children, even if they sided with Death Eaters.

" _Exactly_ ," she bit back, almost in a growl, willing her to understand without having to say it out loud.

Hermione did not answer her, slowly comprehending her meaning. She was on the side close to Voldemort. She was on the side that would not care about hurting children. She was on the side where men –friends– hit women.

"I thought… I thought that was all you wanted. The purebloods in power," she said, after a long silence.

Parkinson snorted rudely. "The Dark Lord in power is not the same as the purebloods in power," she countered. "Lucius Malfoy controlling the ministry is not the same as convicted Death Eaters that spent twelve years in  _solitary_  confinement ravaging the streets."

Hermione swallowed at the idea. That would not bode well for people –for girls– like her.

"You'll still have it better than me," she could not help but point out in righteous indignation.

Parkinson stood shakily, anger reflected in her face. "Hence why you should want this even more," she retorted. Hermione flinched, understanding now what she had meant in the first place. She wanted to raise and answer back, but she was hurting in places where she had not known she could hurt, and no matter what she answered, she felt like the two of them could never agree.

Hermione could now feel Parkinson's anger running through her; rage, frustration, thirst for power, all dancing together and reaching out to her.

Parkinson stared back, all pride and determination now. "I'd do anything to survive," she sentenced, "but I'll obviously  _choose_  when given a choice," and, that said, she left the room with a loud bang.

* * *

Pansy dried herself wandlessly and quickly. Her healing spells needed work, though, and left her sore and with soft, pink patches of skin even while so high on power. Good thing she was good with the cleaning ones, or she would have had some explaining to do. She waved her hand around, satisfied at how the water that had spilled from the bathroom evaporated without effort. Oh, how she loved this! Now she felt like a true witch.

She was angry, though, at how easily her true feelings came out when speaking to Granger. She had wanted to try to persuade her once more, now that it was evident that their power was even stronger than the first time. Now that it was evident Granger needed as much power as she could get. Instead, her true fears had been exposed so very easily.

She rushed back into the infirmary. Madam Pomfrey was sure to deduce that Millicent had ingested Mandrake fertilizer quickly enough; as many students tended to chew on their nails even in classes where it was dangerous. It would not do to be missing when her dear, dear friend finally recovered.

Well, taking Herbology as an elective had its risks; and being a nosy, silly tattletale, even more.

She snuck back in and waited patiently, seated on a chair, as the nurse admonished Millicent for her carelessness. She checked her nails, observing that her waterfalls display had chapped a couple of them. She smiled smugly and chewed on them –a guilty pleasure she never allowed herself– viciously. To hell with the husbands. Granger would eventually fall, seduced by power much as herself, or convinced by reason and necessity. She did not need to look perfect anymore.

* * *

Hermione tried very hard not to think about Parkinson's words. Very, very hard. But Harry was seating besides Ron once more –it seemed she had gotten only the alternate weekends in that divorce agreement– and she had no one to talk to, to distract her from her mind.

She would choose when given a choice, she had said. What did that mean? Well, she was obviously choosing to pursue that coven bond they seemed to have started, that much was obvious. But, what was she choosing it over? The risk of Voldemort turning on his own followers? Surely opposing him was riskier. Then, was it just fear of being weak in a side where power dictated station? Fear of men like Draco abusing her with impunity? That could be it, she supposed. Parkinson was a proud woman, being hit must not have sat well with her.

Still, opposing Voldemort over that was, she thought, extreme. If siding with him got her smacked, siding  _against_  him could easily get her killed. And she had already stated that she would do anything to survive.

Did she have that much faith in the power they could get out of the bond? Hermione frowned, thoughtful. This time it was clearly much more intense that the last. Had it been the amount of blood taken? Had it been the fact that they knew what they were doing? Or maybe the fact that one of them had been fully willing? Magic was, after all, about  _intention._

Well, whatever Parkinson thought, and whether she had a justified reason to seek power, that did not mean she would forgive her for  _that_ , the bloody primitive, barbarous, little–

"Hey," she was interrupted by Ginny's clear voice. "Sorry 'bout my prat of a brother," she apologized while making a face.

"Not your fault, Ginny," Hermione dismissed, letting her bag fall to the ground to make space for her. When she was thinking about Parkinson she could easily forget about Ronald, to be honest. Still,  _everyone_  seemed to want to talk to her about him. At least it kept her distracted.

"Oh, thanks, I'm starving!" she commented, stuffing her mouth with a huge piece of bacon. It was things like that that truly convinced her she was Ron's sister. "Shtill," she tried to say, "he'sh an ashole."

Hermione would have agreed vehemently, but was interrupted by the morning mail being delivered, the loud hooting and flapping of the owls too distracting. A copy of the Daily Prophet fell in front of her plate, carried by a too old bird. She treated it to bacon and water while she unfolded its delivery.

Dean arrived then and said hi awkwardly, having always been rather close to Parvati and Lavender. Hermione returned the greeting rigidly and politely listened as he engaged them –well, mostly Ginny– in conversation. She rather wished she could get to her reading without seeming rude, but did not dare risk it. She had enough problems with her housemates already.

The soft noise of gossip started filling the Great Hall starting from the Hufflepuff table, until the rustling of paper and hush-hush of voices seemed more overwhelming than the arrival of the owls had been. Suddenly realizing the news might be of importance that day, she hurried to unfold the paper fully –finally– and what she saw in the first page took her breath away.

Dean and Ginny stood to get a better look of the picture showing the Dark Mark floating, all green and bright and disgusting, over a clearly muggle house. Sarah and Oliver Wright had been murdered gruesomely during the night, along with their five-year-old daughter. The fact that the  _Prophet_  had opted to not give the specific details hinted at just how very much gruesome it must have been.

"Muggles?" Dean asked in confusion.

"Their son's in Hogwarts," Hermione said, having scanned the full article quickly, her heart beating fiercely.

"Oh, Merlin!" Ginny exclaimed suddenly, "Isn't that new Hufflepuff beater called Wright?"

A fourth-year seated right next to them confirmed it, and they all stood to try and catch a glimpse of the Hufflepuff table, reaching the conclusion that the boy was not there. Hermione sat still, hands shaking slightly, only able to think that that woman was –had been– called like her own mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and kudos everyone! They cheer me up so much :)


	6. Bonds

**Coven. Ch. 6: Bonds**

She nervously clenched and unclenched her fists, already impatient after barely two minutes of waiting. She resisted the temptation to bite her nails, only because of how aware she was that it was unsanitary; her mother had instilled that belief in her until it had stuck fiercely. She blinked rapidly when thinking about her, and wished once more for Professor McGonagall to hurry.

Finally, the door to her office opened and Hermione rushed in, forgetting all about good manners and the respect she owed to her professors. She greeted her briefly and went to sit before speaking, only because she knew the woman was strict, and speaking without seating first would just lead to an early interruption.

"Good evening to you too, Miss Granger," the woman saluted affably, though she seemed tired, judging by the tenseness of her expression and the look in her eyes.

"Professor, I saw the Prophet this morning," she started, feeling it was unnecessary to delay the conversation by an exchange of meaningless pleasantries. She was way too concerned to be pleasant. "About Mr and Mrs Wright," she added, as if there was any need for clarification.

Her professor sighed, exhaustedly, and Hermione felt slightly miffed at the display. Was she  _bothering_  her with her concern about the possibility that her own family might be  _murdered_?

"Miss Granger," she started, with placating voice, and then she knew she had not been the first student to come to her with similar worries. "What happened to Mr Wright's parents is indeed regrettable, and we all feel distraught after hearing such news. However, protection of a student's family does not fall into Hogwart's competency," she explained sedately. Her calmness only fuelled her nervousness. "The Ministry–"

"Surely you can't expect the Ministry to assure the safety of all families of muggleborns,"

Hermione cut her, not caring about proper manners at all anymore.

Professor McGonagall fixed her with a severe look that would have left her ashamed in other circumstances; but which only fuelled her growing irritation now. "Miss Granger, the Ministry has officially communicated that very serious measures will be taken to ensure the safety of–"

"You can't possibly believe the Ministry cares about muggles!" she exclaimed, clutching the seat fiercely in order to resist the urge to stand.

"Miss Granger!" the professor insisted, not at all pleased after being interrupted time and time again. "I assure you the Ministry will offer protection to your family, as well as to all other relatives of muggleborn wizards and witches. I understand your concerns, I truly do. I suggest you address them to the Muggle Liaison Office. I will provide you with the name of the person in charge, and you can formally address them and receive appropriate answers to all of your questions."

Hermione finally stood, now shaking slightly, fury barely repressed. Whether she was angry at Professor McGonagall or at someone else, she was not fully sure.

"I'm not here as a  _student_ , professor," she said in a quiet, though defiant, voice. "I'm here as a member of the Order of the Phoenix," she declared, returning her severe look. "You  _do_  understand that my parents are a higher priority target to Voldemort, don't you?" she insisted.

Professor McGonagall looked slightly taken aback at that. "Miss Granger, I'm sure the Death Eaters have higher priorities than your family right now," she answered, in a low voice, as if someone could be listening to them confessing they belonged to the Order. As if people did not already know.

"What?" she exclaimed, now starting to show her anger, which was sure to not help. "I'm Harry Potter's best friend!  _Muggleborn_  best friend! Surely that's reason enough!" she went on, not having realized she was now raising her voice. "They could use them to lead Harry into–"

"Miss Granger, cease this at once!" her professor exclaimed, also standing up. "The likelihood of Voldemort going after your relatives because of such a far relation to Mr Potter is negligible. The Ministry will provide standard protection and that will suffice to deter any threat," she assured her harshly.

Hermione heard her words and only fully processed ' _negligible'_  and ' _standard'_. She felt hot rage raise inside of her and swallowed slowly, trying to control the magic that was threatening to spill. They  _had to_  realise she was special. She was not just  _another_  muggleborn! She had helped the Boy Who Lived thwart Voldemort's plans at least thrice, it was widely known that she was the brain of the Golden Trio. How would that not make her a target? How would the enemy not try to use her parents against her?

Professor McGonagall must have seen her inner turmoil, because she softened her stance and reassured her. "Death Eaters do not hold muggleborns, or muggles, in any kind of respect, Miss Granger. I know it's unfair and undeserved, but at least it assures that nobody will try to go after them specifically. These attacks are purely toward victims of opportunity with intention to create panic," she kept going, not seeing her words hurt her still. "Lord Voldemort's objectives are always within the magical world."

Hermione nodded briefly –what else could she do in the face of that?– and, not trusting herself to be able to speak, just turned around after a very short bow to excuse herself. As she walked back to her common room, traitorous tears –rage tears– spilling slowly, she felt the restlessness of the new power inside of her.

She turned abruptly, heading to the Room of Requirements, just barely holding all the  _wrath_  within. They only attacked muggles at random, she had said. Apparently a random chance of getting attacked did not deserve any special safety measures. Apparently, if their turn came just as it had come to the Wrights, that was just  _fine_. Not that she truly believed her parents were facing the same risk. No way Voldemort would not use them to get at Harry, no way she was  _that much_  beyond his notice. People like Malfoy would see good reason to go after them!

She rushed up the stairs, stomping on the stone, barely noticing when she bumped into someone. She was certain that, had she been Harry, her family would be receiving all sorts of protection. Hell, she almost believed the Dursleys would receive that protection! But not her. She was just some  _muggleborn_ , undeserving of the attention. Parkinson's poisoned words returned viciously, and this time she felt she was sinking in the truth behind them.

She walked in front of the ugly tapestry, back and forth, almost trembling now that she was so close; and she charged inside with desperation. As the door closed behind her, she took in the sight in front of her.

Hundreds, or maybe thousands, of pots and statues and intricate figures, clay and glass and wood, of all sizes and shapes, were carefully placed on shelves all around. She breathed in, deeply, and raised her hand, just wishing fiercely inside her head and not even bothering to pull out her wand. She pictured Parkinson in her mind, covered in blood, beautiful as she blew that old chair up with barely a thought.

As the first batch shattered violently, her left hand was raising and moving in a sweeping manner, blasting and shoving to the ground anything that stood in her way. She stayed in the centre of the room, not moving an inch, reaching every point with a simple snap of her fingers. She destroyed everything in sight. She set fire to wood. She reduced glasses and pots to shards. She melted away metal, and shattered stone and ripped cloth.

She stood, in the end, alone amidst the wreckage and raised her hands once more, fixing her eyes on them as she had done after being forced to receive that power. She clenched them into fists and seriously considered the tempting option for the first time.

* * *

Pansy had been on edge all day long. She could tell their connection was weakening, fading much quicker than their powers, but she was still aware of Granger's worrying –and anger, this past few minutes–, possibly due to the intensity of the girl's feelings.

Now that she knew to expect, and could identify the origin, of those foreign sensations, they no longer made her react outwardly. It was just a constant buzzing in a corner of her mind. However, the buzzing had lasted for a while now, and it was starting to develop into a headache.

She sighed and looked up to Millicent, who was busy writing an essay for Herbology, while Goyle grumbled about something in the DADA book. Seriously, that watch they kept on her was getting oppressive. Between that and Granger's problems, she just could not focus.

Still, it was not exactly a bad feeling, she had. Those muggles in  _The Prophet_  had been killed because they had produced magical offspring, and were a very clear  _warning_  to all other mudbloods. That meant a clear warning to Granger. Judging by her feelings, it had been very effective indeed. She smiled sweetly, turning a page on the Transfigurations book just so that it looked like she was dutifully studying.

She had spent the past month appealing to Granger's selfishness –her desires and insecurities– and now she realized that she should have gone for her  _selflessness_. Bloody Gryffindors!

This, though… This was much, much better. She did not even need to do a thing. Granger's need to save her parents would make her easy prey; she would come to her herself.

* * *

Harry followed Malfoy's small black dot along the Hogwart's corridors, and frowned deeply. Where was he going, at this time? Surely he should be heading either to the Slytherin common room or the Great Hall, late as it was.

He wanted to go tell Ron or Hermione, but the worried look they got whenever he mentioned the blond git made him wary. He knew they though he was overreacting, but in his mind there was no doubt Malfoy was a Death Eater! He had hinted it so very clearly to Parkinson that time in the Hogwarts Express… But, he needed proof, Hermione would say. Well, so he would get it.

Focused as he was, he assumed whomever had entered the room was one of his roommates –not Ron, as he was most likely stuck to Lavender like a magnet still– and just followed the little name as it turned another corner and went up yet another flight of stairs.

"Harry," whispered Hermione's voice in worry, and he jumped from the bed, startled.

"Hermione!" he exclaimed in surprise, not having expected her to be anywhere but the library at this hour. She had been avoiding the common room like the plague since Won-Won and Lav-Lav had taken over with their excessive displays of affection.

"Harry, are you checking on Malfoy again?" she inquired, with that serious tone that promised a severe scolding to anyone who had been foolish enough to trigger it.

"No, no. It's just… Just, nothing, really," he weekly diverted, earning a more pronounced frown. "What's going on, why're you here?" he asked, hoping to distract her.

Hermione bit her lower lip, a tell-tale sign that she was worried about something. She sat next to him on the bed, completely ignoring that she had caught him red-handed once more; which told him that it was something grave. "It's… It's about my parents," she started, and it took him a few long moments to realize what she was talking about, as he stared back in confusion. "After what happened to the Wrights, I wonder if they're safe, you know?" she said, and he nodded in understanding.

"You should ask the Order," he said immediately. "Maybe McGonagall?" he suggested, and it must have been the wrong thing to say, because her expression became tense.

"I already did," she confessed. "She said they're not in danger," she kept on, voice bitter, "they're not worthy of notice by Death Eaters, apparently."

Harry furrowed his brows and contemplated that. He had been learning a lot about Tom Riddle and his motivations, and he thought he understood him much better now. "Well, it's true that Voldemort generally doesn't think about muggles as real…  _people_ ," he conceded cautiously. "He thinks he's much superior to them, so he needn't be bothered, you see," he explained, as Hermione's expression was carefully neutral.

"But I'm your best friend," she insisted in a strained voice that made him concerned. "They could use my parents against  _us_ ," she countered.

Harry nodded carefully. She had a point, of course. If Hermione's parents were in any sort of danger, he would help her in any way he could to save them. The thought made him remember Sirius briefly, and he once more felt the familiar guilt settle in the depth of his stomach. "Yes, I guess he could," he conceded sadly. "I'll ask Dumbledore about it," he reassured her. "He'll know if they're in real danger, and he'll do something about it," he stated with faith. Dumbledore always knew what was the right thing to do.

Hermione stared at him with eyes slightly too open for a bit longer than he would have expected, and he had to mentally repeat his last words to see if he had screwed up. He really did not think so. Suddenly, her expression softened, and she just said, "You're right, Harry. Dumbledore always knows what's the right thing to do," her voice seemed to falter slightly through the last sentence, and he guessed she must have really been affected by all her worrying. Now, though, she was probably relieved.

He nodded eagerly and she stood, announcing she would see him at dinner. As she left, his attention was drawn back to the map. He cursed loudly when, after a couple of minutes, he could not find Malfoy's name anywhere.

* * *

Theodore was pretending to read the Potions textbook, scribbling random words in a piece of parchment to help the image he wanted to project. Daphne was staring at him again, batting her eyelashes in  _that way_ that just made him feel awkward. He did not want to give her an opening to start a conversation.

He had considered the possibility to send a formal letter to his father, pleading to reject any advances made by the Greengrasses; but he had dismissed the idea. His father would do what he thought most convenient, and any opinion on his part would be deemed childish petulance. However, he held onto the hope that the man would value old blood and loyalty to the Dark Lord over money; as those were usually his priorities. He would rather marry any daughters of an Avery or Rosier than Daphne Greengrass, with all her excessive womanly charms. She looked faker than the Weasley twins' trick wands.

He noticed Millie hurrying down the stairs, behind a very calm-looking Pansy. He grimaced at how obvious the large blond girl was being; in that aspect, she was well matched to Greg. He feared for their children's ability to produce the minimum thinking needed to survive. Still, good thing Millie was already taken, because the Bulstrodes were loyal enough for his father to consider seriously; and  _that_  would have been horrifying.

Pansy walked straight to his table, threw a brief smirk in Daphne's direction, and sat down in front of him. Now, what was all that about? Surely Pansy had not given Draco up in order to pursue _him_? Had he given her the wrong idea, as Blaise kept on suggesting? That could speedily develop into an uncomfortable situation. He almost missed the old days, when his Death Eater father made him an undesirable match. His life had been much easier.

"What are you looking at?" Pansy snapped at him, bringing out her DADA notes. He raised his brows at the sudden aggressiveness, and she just ignored him and started working eagerly, Millie sitting by her side.

Well, maybe she was not pursuing him.

Now that he noticed it, she seemed to be wearing a lot less make-up than usual, which made her skin look slightly darker and her expression a bit softer. She had always overused the eye-liner. Her nails, he observed, were also not properly manicured and he could almost swear she had been biting them. The last time he has seen her like this –in what he considered her most natural state, all rudeness and self-confidence– they had been nine, and she had been bossing Draco and him around in order to play house just the way she liked.

Her change of attitude was another thing to add onto the mountain of little details that seemed to be  _off_  with her. What was their origin? What had changed that year? Pansy had assured him it had nothing to do with Draco –which was hard to believe, as he had started to change at around the same time– but now he had his doubts. What could Draco possibly do to make Pansy disregard her appearance? He could not think of anything.

He just prayed it really had nothing to do with  _Granger_.

* * *

Hermione had thirteen different tomes on warding and protective magic open in front of her. Most of the magic detailed in there would be very useful in order to guarantee her parents' safety, but none of those spells could be casted by a single person. The amount of magic necessary to perform them was too great.

Her hands clenched almost involuntarily. Well, maybe they could be cast by one person who was in a heightened state, such as herself. By the time she got to her parent's house during the Christmas holidays, though, she would not be able to.

She glanced at her hands once more, considering her conversation with Harry. His blind faith in Dumbledore was irritating, she had decided. It was evident that McGonagall was following the Headmaster's instructions, and she did not believe Harry asking would make any difference. Their whole safety plan was based on the idea that Voldemort would simply not choose to attack her parents. In her opinion, that was not a safety plan. It was not even a plan, actually.

However, she had to wonder what she had hoped to accomplish by telling Harry. She knew he followed Dumbledore thoughtlessly. The lack of a dependable adult in his early life made him place too much faith in the ones he had now. It was obvious he would believe it if the man assured him all was well.

Had she hoped he would doubt? Had she hoped he would do something himself? None of those were rational hopes, and therefore they were uncharacteristic of her.

She noted down another spell that required way too much magic to perform on her  _normal_  state, and she feared she had been looking for any alternative to what she just  _knew_  she would end up doing anyway. She would not let her parents suffer for her own decisions, regardless of the price.

"Can I borrow this?" a voice woke her from her inner musings, and she found herself in front of Garcia.

She considered the volume she was pointing at –ancient, runic warding– and was suddenly reminded of the fact that the other girl was also a muggleborn. She nodded. "I'm afraid I might have monopolized all the books on warding," she apologized in a humourless chuckle.

Garcia dismissed it with a shrug. "I actually assumed you'd have," she told her, "you saved me the trouble of looking for them."

They read in silence for long hours, in which they only spoke once to arrange a note exchange afterwards. Once she had finished with the seventh book, Hermione looked over her notes and realized there was nothing there realistically usable. She sighed in frustration and wondered if the Order would help is she brought them the spell, and they only needed to cast along her. Probably not, she guessed. McGonagall had not left much room for doubt.

"Nothing yet?" Garcia asked, not raising her head while she wrote quickly.

"Nothing I can do without at least four or five people," she confessed, desperation clear in her voice.

"Protective spells are very demanding," she agreed. "If my parents were in England I'd be a mess right now," she confessed.

"Are you Spanish?" she asked, having kind of assumed until the moment, based only on her surname and slight accent. Garcia nodded. "I don't think he'll go there. Not yet, at least," she pointed out, envious.

"Me neither," she agreed, "but I won't be caught unprepared. I'd do  _anything_  to keep them safe," she said in a voice so fierce that it surprised her. It did not fit the easy-going, weird girl at all.

Hermione swallowed, internally agreeing with her. "I heard Jackson's trying to convince his parents to move to the States," rumours about muggleborn students were flying all over the place.

"He is. In Hufflepuff, we have the highest number of muggleborns, and everyone is worried sick. Not many trust the Ministry, after they denied You-Know-Who's return for a whole year," she explained. "Jackson might succeed; his parents are kind of afraid of magic. But some people are very reticent to believe things are so bad, especially the families of the younger kids."

Hermione tried to picture what his parents would have done if eleven-year-old her had urged them to flee the country. Probably patted her condescendingly on the head. At most, ask Professor McGonagall. She was fairly certain the witch would have reassured them, given her last conversation with her. The mere thought made her angry again.

"There's this shop in Barcelona," Garcia started, lowering her voice worriedly, "they deal with… all kinds of magic," she followed, with what she assumed was a euphemism for  _dark_. "They might have something useful there, I'll check during the holidays."

"Do they sell to muggleborns?" she wondered, thinking of Borgin and Burke's.

"Yes, of course! Spain's not like England, there's not so much blood hatred over there," she assured her. "And it's not  _that kind_  of shop, more along the lines of old rituals and wandless group spells. Though I'm sure some of the stuff they have kind of borders illegality," she admitted.

Hermione felt surprised by that new piece of information. She had never visited magical communities outside of Britain, and now she felt foolish for assuming. Glad, too, that some places had it better. Maybe if it all went to hell she could move to Spain. It was also sunnier there.

"Anyway, I'll let you know if I find something useful," she offered, and Hermione thanked her profusely.

* * *

Harry debriefed her after his last meeting with Dumbledore, all hope and reassurance. Her parents were safe, he said. Voldemort was busy with bigger plans, he said. Death Eaters were attacking Order members and focusing on Ministry employees, and attacks to muggles were very sporadic. Merely acts of opportunity, he said.

What Hermione gathered from that was that the Order was way too busy fighting and monitoring the state of the government to worry about less important things.

She wondered if Dumbledore would have the gall to repeat it to her face, and then deduced that he probably would not even meet with her. It was no secret that the Headmaster spent little time in the school premises. She did not think he met with any student, besides Harry.

She checked the list of spells she and Garcia had put together during the past two weeks. At least two of them, she could perform on her own when she had found them. By now, though, she would struggle heavily with the simplest one. Come Christmas, she would be completely unable to perform anything that bore a minimum resemblance to it.

She knew, though, that she had another option. A foul, vile, dark option. She had exhausted all the other ones, so, it was not her  _fault_ , was it? They could not just expect her to stand by and do nothing! She had no other  _choice_!

She swallowed, hard. Or did she?

She was not even sure anymore, to be honest. She could not tell if she was being rational, or if she was just finally caving in to that little prickling feeling in the back of her mind that just asked for  _more_. More of that exhilarating feeling of absolute freedom, of absolute pleasure, of absolute power.

After all, she could have gone to a professor after Parkinson had abused her in that bestial way. Even if she had been involved in blood magic, the first time had been accidental, and the second, against her will. And, Parkinson was a Slytherin. She knew who would be blamed for it. They would take her word for the absolute truth and send Parkinson in her merry way to Azkaban. It would have been easy. Maybe even the right thing to do.

But she had not. She had told herself it was dangerous, to expose her relation to blood magic, when everyone was so preoccupied and suspicious. She had told herself it was a matter of pride, that she would deal with Parkinson on her own. She had more honestly admitted that some part of that bloody bond made her  _not want_  to be separated from her. They were connected, she had been able to feel her so close that having her taken away might be unbearable, sick as it sounded. However, she had been well aware that the feeling would fade with time, and it had been just another weak excuse.

Was she addicted? Was she twisting her reasoning in order to find a good excuse to go back to Parkinson? To justify to herself what the other girl had so readily accepted? Were McGonagall and Dumbledore right, after all, and she was just overreacting?

She was not sure at all.

Would she risk her parents' lives on that uncertainty?

She took one long, deep breath and resolved to sell her soul to the Devil.

* * *

Pansy waited patiently until Millicent's soft, deep breaths became even. That the girl had fallen asleep in the library while reading the DADA textbook was very plausible; and she hoped it would not raise suspicions. Of course, she had to be careful. Using the same method to escape her  _supervision_  over and over again would certainly be noticed, even by two complete idiots like Crabbe and Goyle.

Slower Slytherins had yet to realize their new position as Voldemort's informants, as well as the general gravity of the situation. Some of the younger girls had actually scoffed at the idea that the two nitwits reported to the Dark Lord himself. Foolish, foolish kids. Of course they did not report to  _him_  about what little girls liked to do on their free time! What they did was just carefully note who would be in the "keep" or in the "kill" list later on. Oh, did you just say your boyfriend is a halfblood? Kill. Did that girl say she was coursing Muggle Studies? Kill. Did you just laugh at a mudblood first year because his mother was murdered? Show me your arm boy, I have something that would look just  _right_  on it.

She did not think she was ready to have her name in the 'kill' list just yet; not until she could completely assure Granger's collaboration. Afterwards, she guessed it might become inevitable at some point. She did not think the mudblood would continue any sort of arrangement if she visibly joined the Dark Lord's side. And, to be honest, she did not feel much like serving  _someone else_.

She stood and quickly went into the Restricted Section. She had caught Granger throwing her worried looks all day –Circe, Gryffindors were as subtle as a dragon in a potter's shop– and she was hoping she might have finally caved in.

It did not take long for her mudblood to finally make an appearance. Just seeing that frizzy, gigantic ball of hair made her giddy. "Granger," she drawled, not quite able to suppress all the merriment from her voice.

She received a hot glare, which just made her grin amply. Oh, she had her! How she must be loathing her right now, how hard must it be to come back after having denied her so intensely!

"I want to offer you a deal," she started without beating around the bush, and Pansy rejoiced. She must be desperate! That was great news. "I know you want my blood," she said, "and in exchange, I want your help."

She frowned. That, she had not expected. "What do you mean, my help? You need the same as me, just power," she answered suspiciously. Would she try to get out  _more_  than that? How very Slytherin, for a mudblood. She kind of approved.

Granger nodded. "I want to keep my parents safe," she said bravely, as if daring her to criticize her for that. She would not. Not only because it would be downright stupid to do so when it gave her what she wanted; but also because she assumed that –inferior creatures as they all were– she must care for them just as she loved her own mother.

Pansy signalled for her to go on, impatiently.

"But most of the spells I've found, for warding and protection, are too much for me to cast alone; even right after the ritual," she explained, the slight tremble on her right leg betraying her inner nervousness, as much as she had been trying to hide it behind Gryffindor bravado.

Pansy frowned even deeper. "You want  _me_  to cast them with you?" she asked, not even sure she was following. She might have been asking her to let one of her goody-goody friends into their arrangement. Now that would be unacceptable.

Granger nodded eagerly and her eyes went wide with surprise. Again, unexpected. The girl was just full of unpredictable twists. "Why would I do that?" she asked indignantly. "You get the same as me out of this deal, I don't see why I should give any more," she defended.

Granger bit down hard on her lower lip, which meant she was worried. More worried than angry, actually. Now, was that not a novelty? This situation with her parents had made her put aside their previous…  _disagreement_. How very fortunate.

"I only need this power once," she said cockily, most likely trying to appear more confident than she felt. "If you don't help me and my parents die, I don't need it. Then you get no deal. If you help me, though, I'm willing to consider a… longer arrangement," she offered.

Pansy was not in the mood for subtleties, as Millicent could wake up at any moment. "I help you with your parents, and we keep doing this for as long as I wish," she counteroffered. Haggling, she was good at. Madame Malkin ran the other way when she saw her in the street.

Granger stood straighter, looking dissatisfied, so she interrupted her before she could get a word in. "Look, if we don't reach an agreement and your parents die, I might get no blood," she admitted, "but you get no parents," she pointed out with a smirk. "Don't think you have the upper hand here, Granger."

The other girl glowered at that, which seemed to put everything right back in its own rightful place. They did not need to like each other, after all. When she answered with an "I hate you, Parkinson," she knew she had won.

"Fine," Granger said between her teeth, eyes slightly wet. "But we take care of my parents first," she sentenced.

Pansy thought on that carefully, in order to make a good point. She did not like the idea of waiting until after Christmas, as she did not feel fully safe in her own dorm. "I'm guessing you want to do it during the Christmas holidays?" Granger nodded stiffly. "That's about one month away now. Are you sure it's the best idea, to wait until then? No practice beforehand? No making sure you have the spells under control?" she tempted, and Granger gasped. "Because I think we have a higher chance of success if we practice a bit ahead of time."

Granger brought a hand to her lips and looked at the ground, pensive.

"The way I see it," she started again, dying to reach the favourable agreement once and for all, "this enhanced magical state lasts for about two weeks every time we complete the ritual. If these spells are as taxing as you say, then we probably need to perform them when we're at our peak; right afterwards." Granger confirmed that. "From here until Christmas, we can do it twice," she suggested in an even voice, trying to hold her excitement. "And we practice the spellwork, twice," she finished.

"That's not a bad idea…" she grumbled, still reticent. "We'd have no time to react to any unexpected problems, otherwise."

It was clear that not having thought of the possibility was getting at her. Pansy blamed it on her absolute reticence to perform the fine piece of blood magic, which was just nonsensical. Why not take Circe's gift when she had offered so graciously?

"You're right," she finally conceded, as much as it must be paining her. "We should do it a couple of times before Christmas arrives." She stayed silent after that, eyes closed painfully. Pansy smiled like the cat that got the cream. Finally! "When's a good time for you?" Granger asked, suddenly all business.

Well, it seemed the woman was efficient, once her mind was made up. She had to admit she liked that. Stalling was not her style; not with matters of importance.

"Not now," she answered, throwing a worried look in Millicent's general direction. "I could probably sneak out tonight," she suggested. Tricking her house mates at night was way easier than during the day; Goyle and Millicent could not stay awake for all the gold in the world.

Granger shook her head. "The day after tomorrow, past midnight?" she half-asked, half-determined on her own.

Pansy would have liked to push a closer date, but was well aware that she was just being driven by impatience. She already had what she wanted, and waiting one day or two would not make a big difference. Besides, the faster they dealt with this conversation, the sooner she would be back next to her  _dear friend_ , pretending to study.

"Meet me in the seventh floor corridor, in front of the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy," Granger suggested.

"The dancing trolls? Really?" she frowned, unamused. Why so very far from the dungeons? Well, it was not close to the Gryffindor tower either, so the girl probably had a good reason. If Draco was to be believed, Potter had managed to come out clean of a great deal of rule-breaking, and she had no doubt that must have been thanks to Granger.

"You'll see why, trust me," she said with a satisfied grin, and Pansy just sighed and gave in.

They nodded to each other in acknowledgement of their meeting, and left in opposite ways. Pansy walked back calmly, taking a random book on wandless charms on her way back. ' _Trust me_ ' she had said, huh? She snorted and though of how unlikely it was, that the two of them would ever end up trusting each other.

Well, at least, Granger would be a big fool to trust her. She had already proven that very explicitly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the reviews until now!


	7. Bet

**Coven. Ch. 7: Bet**

Blaise narrowed his eyes at seeing Theo talking to Pansy –what the fuck had happened to her nails? That was disgusting– before sitting right next to them. He smiled tensely and his friend averted his eyes, surely reading his mind.

But, seriously, Pansy? Of all the girls around on which to get a silly crush, did it have to be  _Pansy_? Simpering, shrilly, pug-faced Pansy? Thank Merlin Theo was still denying it. That would save him from having to endure endless hours of listening to that nerve-wrecking sound of scratching chalkboards that was her voice.

Thankfully, the chances of that union happening were as low as child's broom flying. The only way for that to occur was if the man himself begged his father to let him marry her. And Theo would not do that; not for Pansy nor for any other girl.

Greengrass joined them without even looking at him –the little bitch– and made an attempt at conversation. Pansy glared,  _graceful_  as always, and Theo fidgeted awkwardly. He repressed a snort at the clumsy scene. His friend was not a ladies' man, that was for sure. Not that he ever tried to be, anyway.

He had spent three whole years wondering if he might not just be  _gay_ , but had ended up dismissing the idea. How could his best friend be gay and not fall for handsome, perfect him, after all? And Theo had never even  _glanced_  in his direction. So, that left either heterosexual or asexual. He had not been quite sure of which option to favour, until this bizarre obsession with Pansy had started.

Theo had called it friendship, but he would call that  _bullshit_  any day. Women were never  _friends_ ;that was just the word one used when saying 'I want to fuck that' out loud felt inappropriate. It seemed Theo feared saying those words even to himself.

He barely repressed a snort when he asked Pansy  _her opinion_  on McGonagall's most recent assignment. It was plain to see he was going out of his way to engage her in conversation. 'Something's bothering her, Blaise' he mimicked in a particularly high, mocking voice in his own head. Apparently that implied he had to ask her menial homework-related questions until she felt like spilling her deepest, darkest secrets.

He thought he should try asking her about make-up or fashion; at least she would have a chance of knowing the answer.

His eyes locked with Daphne's, and he sneered, receiving a most patronizing eyebrow-raise. She really had a talent for transmitting all of her disdain with the smallest of gestures. But at least she was hot, so he would understand if his best –and only, if he was being honest– friend had set his sights on her. But how could one look at cheap trinkets when a diamond was right by their side?

Oh, speaking of cheap trinkets, he needed a date to Slughorn's party.

* * *

Hermione brushed McLaggen's offer without much thought. She had way too many problems to be thinking about boys right now, and did not feel like pretending to be interested in his worries for a whole evening. Parkinson had, once again, put one over her. How someone who she once had dismissed as feeble and unintelligent kept on besting her, she could not explain.

Well, not having any sort of moral scruples must be helping, she guessed.

Still, the girl had made a very valid point, with the whole practicing thing. For all she knew, they could meet in her parent's house and find themselves unable to perform magic in the drug-like euphoria that had characterized their last  _bonding_. Also, it would be the first time they would both be willing, and so the effects might differ. After all, they had not experienced such an extreme immediate reaction after the first accidental completion.

She obviously knew Parkinson only wanted an excuse to never stop their arrangement. Their magic seemed to return to normal levels after a couple of weeks, and so the girl wanted to get back to the maximum after that amount of time. However, that did not make her observation any less pertinent. She actually could not believe it had not occurred to  _her_ , thorough and perfectionist as she was. It was clear that her over-carefulness regarding blood magic had made her thoughtless, in the same way that Parkinson's over-eagerness made her rash.

Maybe they would actually make a good team, she though in a fit of dark humour.

She saw Harry awkwardly receiving a box from Romilda Vane and she frowned in worry. Now, that was not good. She approached them quickly, and the younger girl glared at her intensely before fleeing the scene.

"I'd throw this right now, if I were you," she advised in a motherly tone. "I heard some of her friends talking about love filters in the bathroom," she explained.

Harry grimaced and kept the box as far away from him as possible, horrified at the thought. He might have to spend the next three weeks actively avoiding eating food whose origin he had not confirmed with his own eyes.

"Slughorn's party is making everyone go crazy," his friend complained. Hermione thought that people had already been going crazy way before that point, herself possibly included. "Who're you going with?" he asked, with a nonchalance not even believed by himself.

"Did Ronald ask you to find out?" she asked bitterly, recognizing the little telling signs everywhere.

"What? No!" he said, but he went beet red and mumbled some nonsense about friendship and taking care of her.

"I think I might just go alone, to be honest," she answered tiredly. "I just don't want to deal with the whole  _date_  thing. And you? Did you ask Ginny?"

"Wh–what? Wh– Ginny? No, no. Ginny, no. Why Ginny? Ginny is going with her Dean– I mean, her boyfriend, Dean. Yes, she is," he replied flustered, and she could not help but smother a laugh.

"Ah, I see," she replied casually, as if that stuttering mess of a reply had not just happened.

"I invited Luna," he answered, now red from his neck to his ears. "To go as friends," he clarified quickly. "Maybe you could ask a friend, too? Neville?" he suggested.

"Neville's still bitter about Slughorn dismissing him so easily, I think the invitation would hurt him more than do any good," she said, having already considered the possibility. And, sadly enough, she did not have any more male friends, did she?

Harry nodded understandingly. "Well, I 'spose it'll be alright, if you go alone. You can chat with me and Luna," he offered, and she smiled at him warmly.

* * *

Pansy walked back alone to the common room, as Theodore and Blaise had stayed back to speak to Slughorn after class. It seemed evident those two were not on spy duty just yet, though she guessed Theo might be pulled into the mess soon enough. She did not think he would betray her without very solid reason, but her proximity to Granger might soon classify.

She took the long route, going up until the fifth floor instead of down toward the dungeons, as she wanted to enjoy the little bit of solitude she was being allowed. She wondered if they were paying so much attention to everybody, or if there was just something special about her. Did they want her to join the Death Eaters? It seemed unlikely, given how utterly average she had always been. Maybe they wanted some leverage against her father? She did not think the man needed to be coerced into supporting the Dark Lord, now that things were starting to go his way. Well, she guessed she would find out sooner or later.

She reached the top of the stairs and was surprised at seeing a barefoot girl amiably chatting with some portraits. She frowned at seeing her feet in contact with the cold stone –it was the end of November, for Circe's love!– and the lack of hurry to remedy that.

The girl turned around when she heard her approaching steps and fixed her with a look so empty it was almost ethereal, with those huge, pale eyes seemingly seeing beyond her. Ah, it was Loony Lovegood, that explained everything.

"You should be careful," the girl said in a dreamy voice that made her sound like the fairies in Grandmama's bedtime stories, "the ill-will-mites seem attracted to you lately."

What was the touched girl saying now? She was royally famous for making no sense –as frequently described by the younger Slytherin girls–, and now she understood the fame might be well deserved.

"You should be careful too," she answered in a no-nonsense tone, "you'll catch a bloody cold. I wager that's more dangerous," she warned, pointing at her toes.

"Oh, it's fine. The nargles like to take my shoes," she shrugged, "and I already got used to it."

Pansy frowned, unconvinced, and suspicious. "Is nargle a synonym for bully in crazyland?" she snapped. "Put a bloody nasty hex on your shoes, and you'll see if the nargles touch them again," she challenged.

Lovegood looked pensive at that, as if the idea had not occurred to her before. "Butterbeer corks keep the nargles away," she said slowly, "I never heard of hexes working before."

Well, that explained the funny necklace, she guessed. The mix between naive and barmy made the girl an easy prey, even for the Ravenclaws. Pansy was no saint, and she had done her fair share of petty bullying, but abusing someone so very much…  _distracted_ , as her mother would say, was one step too far for her tastes. It was like kicking puppies, or stealing candy from toddlers. Just right beyond the line. Those Ravenclaws really needed better discipline. Well, what could one expect from lower breeding?

"Here, I'll show you one. No harm in trying, right?" she suggested, and showed her the first curse her mother had ever taught her. ' _To put on your good jewellery box'_ , she had said. It had sent two upper-year girls to the Infirmary so far.

Lovegood might have only half her gobstones left in the bag, but she was a quick learner. "It  _is_  a very nasty one," she conceded in that half-off voice of her, "It really suits you," she said with a soft smile that illuminated her whole face. She somewhat got the feeling that it was meant as a compliment.

"It'll suit you too, if it gets you your shoes back," she simply said, uncomfortable by her obvious delight.

She left her behind, once more engaging in conversation with the portraits, and she rolled her eyes. Not her fault if she did end up catching a cold, she had already done enough.

Right behind the following corner stood Crabbe and Goyle, speaking in soft whispers to Graham Montague. She halted and hid back behind the wall. Damn, running into those two would be bad luck; she did not feel like explaining what she was doing in the fifth floor corridor. She retraced her steps softly, and her eyes fell back on the misty girl.

Ah, ill-will-mites indeed.

* * *

Hermione reached their meeting spot five minutes in advance, and removed the invisibility cloak she had 'borrowed' from Harry. She knew he would have lent it to her without a problem, but he would have also asked what she wanted it for. He might buy that she intended to get some extra time in the library, but sometimes Harry had unexpectedly good intuition, and she did not feel like taking the risk.

Parkinson appeared barely two minutes afterwards, throwing worried glances behind her back, clearly not skilled enough to cast a disillusionment charm without some extra spark. She approached her decidedly and with her usual sneer, though the tense lines around her mouth betrayed her impatience.

"So? What is so special about some ugly trolls dancing  _ballet_?" she said with an impeccable French accent and no small amount of disdain.

"Just you wait," she told her, and then wished for a room in which to safely perform the ritual, while walking back and forth in front of the wall three times.

Parkinson watched in horror, most likely thinking she had lost her mind and, before being able to prove her wrong, Hermione stopped and realized that no door had appeared on the bare stone wall.

"Huh? That's weird," she mused softly, approaching and pressing the hard, unyielding surface.

"Wait, wait! There used to be a room here, right?" Parkinson exclaimed suddenly. "This is where we caught you all last year, when you were meeting for your Dumbledore Fan Club!"

Hermione gasped at that. "Of course,  _you_  were there! I forgot about that," she growled, glaring at her. God, she really did have reasons to hate her.

Parkinson waved her hand very aristocratically, dismissing her complaints. "Do let bygones be bygones, Granger," she advised. "Where did the room go?" she asked then, "And why were you pacing up and down like a retarded person?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes at her and almost considered not explaining. However, they would need the room sooner or later, and she did not feel like dealing with her complaints now to end up giving in out of necessity later on. Like it or not, she had a  _deal_  with Parkinson, and one that might end up being long. "It's the way it works. You walk back and forth three times, while thinking strongly of what you need, and the Room of Requirements provides it for you."

Parkinson was left momentarily speechless, which was actually a little bit of a miracle in itself. "Are you serious?" she asked in a whisper after some time. At Hermione's nod, she pressed, " _Anything_  you need?" and she could see the greed shining in her eyes. Slytherins really should not get to know about those sort of secrets; they were sure to find the most advantageous and unexpected ways to use them.

"Well, it's not like it can skip Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration," she pointed out warily, "But pretty much anything, yes."

The girl looked very much impressed at the revelation, and she was frankly surprised when she took her word at face value, without seeing any proof, and just asked, "So, why isn't it working now?"

Hermione bit her lower lip in frustration, thinking hard before having to admit that she did, in fact, not know.

She had asked for a place in which to safely perform the ritual. Was that the wrong way to ask? Could it be that there was no way to do it  _safely_? She was worried at the implications of such a thing, but she still tried to get in using different formulations, just in case. 'A room in which to perform the ritual' or 'a private room' did not yield favourable results either, and that was generic enough to not suppose any problem. So, it must be something else.

"What're you trying now?" Parkinson asked impatiently, eyes narrowed.

"Just wondering if I asked for something that it couldn't provide, but I don't think that's the case…"

What was it then? The fact that Parkinson was there? No, DA members had come in small groups or pairs more than once, and as long as they wished for the  _same thing_  as the ones already inside, it had always–

"Oh! Of course!" she exclaimed suddenly, and was quickly shushed by her companion. "There's someone inside!" she whispered, excited at getting the most likely reason.

"And that means we can't get in?" Parkinson sounded disappointed.

"Unless we wish for the same thing that it's already being used for, I don't think so," she guessed.

Parkinson huffed, irritated. Then, though, she got pensive and added, "Then, when we  _do_  use it, we'll need to ask for something as specific as possible, won't we?"

Hermione considered the question carefully for a few seconds, admitting Parkinson had made a smart observation. "I'm not sure… If, for example, I went in and someone wished to enter the  _room in which I am_ , would that work?"

"We should do some trial and error," she suggested reasonably, also aware of the fact that they should not get caught covered in each other's blood. It might be a tad hard to explain. "Tomorrow, same time?"

Hermione sighed deeply and shook her head. "That could be very risky," she told her. "Harry might find out," she expanded at the sight of the impatient frown.

"What? Why? Does he usually check if you're in your room at this time of the night?" she asked, half amused, raising and lowering her brows in insinuation.

Hermione ignored the comment and considered what to answer. It was clear that Parkinson would insist, eager as she was to regain her power; and if she gave her some half-baked reason she might start to doubt her willingness to go on. It was better to gain her  _trust_  –she cringed at the thought of Parkinson and trust in the same sentence– rather than oppose her. They were going to be meeting for a long while, by the looks of it, and she would have to tell her eventually. After all, their schedule would end up depending on it.

"No, Harry… Harry has a way to know where anyone in this castle is, at any time, if he wishes," she explained, not wanting to betray her friend by giving more details.

"WHAT?!" Now it was Hermione who had to shush her. "Bloody Saint Potter can know where  _I_  am any time? How in Merlin's name does he do it?" she continued, enraged.

"The how is irrelevant now!" she snapped back, and she could see that Parkinson disagreed, but did not look too eager to push the issue in the middle of a corridor after curfew. "What matters here is that he can. I suggested to meet today because he has detention with Snape, which means he'll get to the common room very late. But any other day, he might see that we're spending an unnatural amount of time together, in a very small room. He'll get suspicious, and start asking way too many questions."

Parkinson huffed and cursed at the drawback. She obviously also understood that having Harry snooping around would not end well. It was better if she knew, after all; Parkinson should be aware that Harry could notice if she followed her, or tried to ambush her once more. "So, what do we do then?" she asked with narrowed eyes.

Hermione thought briefly, but with Harry's recent obsession with Malfoy Watching using the Marauder's Map, there really was no safe place within the castle. "It'll have to be this weekend, during the Hogsmeade visit," she sentenced.

"Golden boy won't be keeping an eye on you then?" she asked derisively, scrunching up her nose. She had clearly disliked Harry impeding their plans.

"Ronald has custody this weekend," she answered more bitterly than she had wished, and the comment made the other girl snort in amusement. "So, no, I'll be very free."

"Great. Let's meet by the edge of the village, close to the Hog's Head," she said, pronouncing the name with obvious contempt.

Hermione nodded, "See you on Sunday, then." As she left, she realized that might have been the first time they had held a conversation without arguing. Maybe there was hope for their little arrangement, after all.

* * *

Pansy shivered slightly and redid her heating charm, with frustratingly poor results. She truly hoped they finally succeeded in their attempt, as she was feeling seriously impeded, as if she was barely managing to walk after having broken a leg. Granger was late, which was unusual. She hoped nothing had happened to her. It would have been awfully bad timing.

She exhaled and shivered once more, rubbing her hands together, mentally noting she needed to go back to Madam Malkin's. Her leather gloves still retained the beautifully soft wampus cat fur within them, but the permanent warming charm was wearing off. She would have attempted to recast it herself, but the fine leather had been expensive and she did not wish to risk damaging it.

As she hid her hands under her armpits, in search for warmth, two younger Hufflepuffs rushed by, hands all over each other, and threw her a careful look. She sneered at them, even from the inelegant position. Like she cared whether some nameless 'Puffs were snogging in the middle of a freezing forest. They would not even make good gossip material…

She turned when she heard the rushed squeaking and crunching of footsteps on the snow, and saw the massive, frizzy curls jump up and down before she even saw her face.

"Parkinson," Granger said breathlessly, quickly walking towards her. "Sorry, I ran into Colin Creevey and…" at Pansy's confused look, she just shook her head, "Let's just say he can be very  _persistent_. Luckily, I saw Harry and I managed to divert his attention," she informed her, looking over her own shoulder.

She did not know who that was nor why Granger felt like sharing that information, but the thought of Potter being bothered by some  _persistent_  boy lifted her spirits, and compensated for the cold, somewhat.

"Let's walk," Granger just said suddenly, not having stopped even for a full two seconds, and took off in the direction opposite to the centre of the village.

"What? Where?" she asked, following quickly to catch up to her now more sedate rhythm. She was wearing the most resistant shoes she owned, but they were still not made for running on snow. Granger's… boots? Well, whatever weird thing with colourful laces was wrapped around her feet, adapted to the slippery surface of already-stepped-on snow much better.

"Speak softly," the girl commanded, and at her visible frown, elaborated, "See that man over there? The one who seems to be taking pictures of the village, one right after another?" Pansy nodded, barely glancing in that direction. She did know how to be subtle. "He's an Auror."

Pansy stifled a surprised gasp. "What? How do you know that?" she whispered furiously, now overly conscious of the man.

"Well, it's obvious they must have some dispatched here, right? Death Eaters are all over the place, and yet we're still allowed Hogsmeade weekends. So, of course there're going to be Aurors all around."

Pansy nodded once more. That much was obvious. Still, how could she know that that seemingly innocent bystander was one? She would have pegged him as a clumsy old man trying to take pictures, to be honest.

"That man is looking everywhere, and it might seem like he's trying to find a nice view. I admit it's a good cover, I've seen worse. However, that camera he's using is too old a model to go with the omniocular filter he's set up in front of it. Also, the way he carries himself is giving him away. If you watch how Aurors move for a while, you'll manage to pick up on that fake clumsiness they try to display," she lectured quickly. "Also, when he bends down you can see the handle of his second wand coming out of his right boot. It's standard Auror wand placement."

Pansy's eyebrows rose considerably. Those were some observation skills, she had to admit. It was a good thing that Granger was useful, despite the whole  _mudblood_  issue. She smiled, smugly satisfied with the choice she had made.

"We should assume there're more, then, right?" she guessed, trying to keep up with the flow of information without seeming  _ignorant_. She prided herself on her ability to take in unexpected situations without so much as a lifted brow; as was expected of a pureblood. Circe forbid she ever took unexpected news with an open mouth and bulging eyes, much less in public.

Granger nodded. "My bet would be the young woman walking by that broken-down fence, the one walking a dog," she answered.

Pansy nodded almost imperceptibly.

"That's why I think she's one," Granger explained, "Have you seen many people owning dogs in Hogsmeade?" she asked, and she had to admit she made a very valid point. Wizards were not generally fond of dogs, widely preferring cats or toads. However, their sense of smell could be very beneficial to an Auror on duty. "Damn, I didn't expect so many… I hope there's no one I know on duty today," she said to herself.

Well, being one of Dumbledore's followers she probably knew some. Good thing they were not openly displaying their house colours during their Hogsmeade trips; she might pass for some nameless Gryffindor friend of hers. Hopefully no simple Auror would be able to tell she was wearing a coat that cost more than what they earned in a year; that might be a bit of hint.

They passed by the old, dirty, vagrant-looking owner of the Hog's Head; who looked at them intensely with surprisingly clear and penetrating blue eyes. Pansy felt her heart skip for a second, being left with the impression that those eyes could see directly into her soul. She shook her head, creeped out, and looked away. Didn't they say the filthy man  _abused_  his goats? Well, better goats than girls, but  _still_.

She looked back, over her shoulder –as discretely as she could, considering the bad angle and their fast pace– but the man seemed to have lost all interest in them, trudging toward the village at a slow pace.

"Where're we supposed to go?" she asked suddenly, having just realized that the heavy Auror presence meant they could not just sneak into the forest anywhere without risk of being found. The idea of not managing to complete the ritual once more was unbearable.

"The Shrieking Shack," Granger answered without hesitation, and Pansy almost goggled.

"Are you crazy?" she spat, "That cursed place?"

Granger looked briefly in her direction and smirked slightly. She felt a blush creep up her cheeks and tried to keep her dignity. It was common knowledge that the place was cursed; anyone that did not possess a Gryffindor's crazy rashness would be wary.

"It's  _not_  cursed," Granger reassured her. "Believe me, I've been there," she said before taking a turn and heading to the patch of trees closer to the broken down fence.

"How does that imply it isn't cursed," she insisted, tired of all the damn little secrets Granger seemed to know that she did not. "Maybe you're slowly dying on the inside and will start sputtering blood any day," she half-wished bitterly, and followed more slowly.

"At least try not to drink that, will you?" Ganger demanded, turning only to direct a hot glare toward her. She stopped, looked around to make sure the trees provided enough coverage, and took out her wand in a fast and precise movement. Pansy preferred to do it with a flourish, if there was no hurry; but Granger had absolutely no sense for dramatization. She made her feel like what they were doing was routine, and not an exciting, forbidden immersion in the Dark Arts.

"If it's not cursed, then what's the story behind it?" she wanted to know, and furrowed her brows at the nothingness in front of her. Damn, did she have to do everything without previous warning? Potts and Weasels might have been fine with having all the important decisions taken for them, but  _she_  was smart enough to contribute.

"Damn, you can never take anything at face value, can you?" a voice came from the spot Granger had been in. She could almost see the bushy girl's lips, pressed in annoyance, despite the sudden invisibility.

"You're one to talk, know-it-all," she pointed out with a hand flourish, before realizing that she, too, had become invisible. She huffed, envious of her raw talent, though grateful she could not see it on her face now.

"Now I'll charm our feet so that we don't leave any footprints," she explained, and nothing seemed to happen, as the smart, little bookworm must have done it non-verbally.

"How in Circe's name will I know where you are, then?" she asked in frustration.

"Just go toward the door," a voice answered from far away; and she cursed and rushed to follow the rash Gryffindor. How any of them managed to reach old age, she did not understand. Surely at least some toned down the suicidal tendencies a little bit, and her actions were just inspired by Boy-Who-Lived luck. She would have to remind her Saint Potter was no longer in the party.

In retrospect, considering the whole situation, it was a bit of a miracle that they had only collided twice in the five-hundred feet they walked until reaching the tattered walls of the Merlin-forsaken shack. Though the amount of profanities that had come from both their mouths –especially after the head bumping– had been undignified, she was overall satisfied. It helped that no one had been able to see their sad waddling through the thick layer of snow.

Pansy was still carefully probing the growing lump on her side when Granger knocked on at least five different, undistinguishable spots on the hard wood, and murmured a soft and long incantation. With a loud, nerve-wrecking and long 'creak', a human-sized, irregular piece of thick material slowly fell in.

Nothing in the world could have prepared her for the amount of dust that was generated by such a simple action. It attacked them, unforgiving, like a grey sea-wave of smoke, and she remembered just in time that closing her mouth was a much better choice than screaming. Granger managed a half-decent vanishing spell in a fit of coughing, while Pansy was busy scratching her eyes raw to get the disgusting dirt out.

"How long," cough, "since you were," cough, "last here," she managed to say, her throat feeling like sand paper, but glad she had succeeded in transmitting some contempt through her tone.

"Third year," Granger weakly croaked. "Never went in this way, though" she explained painfully, and spat on the ground. It was the kind of vulgar action Pansy looked down on the most; but she had to admit that the situation warranted it.

When she finally managed to fully open her eyes, she was horrified by the view. First of all, there was dust; an infinite amount of dust, slowly floating down until settling over rubble and broken-down furniture, remains of things –she could not, for the love of Circe, know which– that had been completely shattered. There were stains on the floor, and on the walls, where the paper was peeling down along deep, big marks of  _fucking_  claws; especially passionate where the windows had been boarded up.

But no, it was not cursed. It did not look,  _at_   _all_ , like anyone had been cursed in there.

As she was taking in the room, mouth agape, and eyes bulging, Granger stepped in decidedly. She swallowed and followed with dubious steps, cursing fiercely at whomever had occupied the Room of Dreams Come True a few nights before. She covered her mouth and nose with her white-fox fur scarf, which would surely be ruined, and tried to wave the dust away with her hand, unsuccessfully.

Granger repaired the wall slowly behind them, effectively trapping them in the darkness inside. Pansy flicked her wand immediately, lighting the old candles she had seen attached to the walls, that looked new and pristine, and therefore must have been somehow enchanted.

She tried a couple cleaning charms that made the room more bearable –in what concerned dust and general grime– and watched as her partner in crime walked to the centre of the room.

"How in Merlin's name is this slaughterhouse not haunted?" Pansy hissed hysterically, keeping her voice down while warily watching a door –the only door, leading to nowhere that had been visible from the outside– on the other side of the room.

Granger seemed to notice her distress for the first time, and sighed painfully. Pansy wanted to strangle her, the way she treated her fear as a delaying annoyance.

"It's not. Those are Professor Lupin's," she explained, pointing at the deep and thin breaches on the walls, while letting a heavy bag fall on the floor.

Pansy gasped in understanding. "The werewolf!" she exclaimed, again looking at the walls, at the broken down wood pieces. This was where they had hidden that beast, of course. They could not have kept him in the school, even if Dumbledore had been negligent enough to actually hire the half-bred creature.

"This was built during Professor Lupin's school years, so that he could safely spend the full-moon every month," she explained detachedly, her calm and countenance not fooling Pansy for a moment. She cared for the beast, and did not like sharing such private details with her. "The shrieks were just his howls, and him trying to get out."

Pansy felt dismayed at the knowledge she had slept so very close to a werewolf trying to get out of a shaky wooden shack. However, knowing that the beast was not a threat at the moment, and with a plausible explanation for the sorry state of the building, she managed to regain her composure.

Granger had been busy pulling books, parchment, quills, ink and a simple knife out of a seemingly bottomless bag, and pointed at the volume right on top of the huge pile.

"The spells I'm interested in are marked," she said, and showed her a bright-red little strip that was tucked between some two pages of the thick tome. Pansy frowned worriedly. There were at least a dozen of those bright little buggers tucked here and there, over six or seven different books. "Try to become familiar with them before we start," she demanded, and opened a big, old-looking tome herself.

Pansy's eyes narrowed at the aggressively red markers, all while picking one of the volumes at random and flipping the pages in overly-exaggerated disinterest. The act was wasted on Granger, though, focused as she was on reviewing the spells she must have already memorized. She clicked her tongue loudly to make her annoyance audibly noted, as it would  _not_  do for Granger to start thinking she had become  _compliant_.

She had actually opted to team up with a Gryffindor bookworm –she had trouble believing it herself, at times– so she really should have expected it; the sneaking around in plain sight, the dirty werewolf hide-hole, the piles of tattered library books and sitting on the floor like some of the beggars that spotted Knockturn Alley. Gryffindor style, indeed.

She would have to teach Granger some Slytherin habits, starting with  _comfort_ , she thought, as she wiggled her bottom to try and find a slightly comfortable position on the cracked wooden slats. Circe, she was in for a long day…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you to Silverdragoness for beta reading this chapter. Also, thank you everyone for leaving your comments and kudos! Reading your opinions makes my day. I hope you'll enjoy this one :)


	8. Caught

**Coven. Ch. 8: Caught**

Hermione took one more look around, perhaps slightly overacting when trying to pretend she was not bothered by the whole situation.

She  _was_  bothered.

She was worried sick. She had been doubting herself after every lie told to her friends, after every glance at the piled-up books on her nightstand, after every step that had taken her where she currently sat; in an abandoned building in the sole company of Pansy Parkinson.

She must have gone crazy.

She took a deep breath and closed the book she had been reviewing for the umpteenth time. She heard Parkinson huff in annoyance, still reading with a mixture of apprehension and disdain that only a true pureblood could pull off successfully, sneer still in place, as if even books should feel inferior when being touched by her.

She checked the time with a quick spell and frowned slightly. They had been there for almost three hours, and she had to admit she was kind of impressed that Miss Grumpy had been obediently reading the whole time. She had asked, sullenly, a total of three questions during that time –pertinent ones, actually– which meant she was paying attention. Completely mastering the spells would require practice, but she was confident they could manage, given her full understanding of the subject and Parkinson's basic reading.

"You sure this one's  _legit_?" she asked, dragging the word, interrupting her inner musings.

Hermione moved closer to her and slightly frowned, silently sharing her doubts. "This one was a suggestion from a friend," she started, "It's logically complete and arithmantically self-consistent." Which was true, but she was actually  _trusting_  Garcia's absolute faith in her weird Grand Theory of Equivalency–as she herself very seriously called it–, according to which the spell  _should_  work.

"You having  _friends_  besides Potty and Whistle is what's not logically self-consistent," she mocked, in a nonsensical use of arithmantical concepts, which still proved to be a rather effective insult.

"At least  _I_  have some," she mumbled, receiving and aristocratically arched brow from Parkinson. "In any case, we try and see if it works. I've checked all the equations, and it's not like it can go  _wrong_." The both knew what a spell going  _wrong_  meant –truly, truly wrong– and Parkinson nodded, though she did not seem fully convinced.

"Thirteen in total, then," she said, dropping the book unceremoniously, and waving her hand as if asking her to proceed.

Hermione nodded and reached for the knife, trying to exude a confidence she was not feeling. On the other hand, her new ally was also having difficulties in trying to hide her eagerness. Her brown eyes sparkled with anticipation, reflecting the candlelight in wavy movements; it truly went with the  _dark_  atmosphere they had created, surrounded by dusty books and floating, flickering lights, alone in that sinister room that was covered in claw marks and dried blood stains.

She took the knife and swallowed gravely, for the first time truly feeling like she was performing Dark Magic. Turning it slowly, awkwardly, between her fingers she just started, "so…"

"Oh, Circe's sake! You just  _couldn't_  find a more ordinary knife, could you?" Parkinson interrupted mercilessly. "I can't believe you're using a  _kitchen knife_!" she exclaimed theatrically, hand over her heart. "Have you got no sense of dramatism? Does the word  _mood_  mean anything to you?"

Hermione frowned in annoyance, "So what?" she defended brusquely, "It cuts, it'll do the trick." Parkinsons exaggerated eye-roll showed disagreement, though she could care less, to be honest. The girl really had some delusions of grandeur.

"Well, 'beech wands for the lesser' and all that," she arrogantly spouted, shamelessly quoting  _Grindelwald_  himself. Not that there had ever been any  _proved_  correlation between having a wand of common wood and performing poorly, but trust Parkinson not to care. "I hope you at least disinfected the nasty – eh, wha –  _ARGH_! You  _bitch_!" she yelled, holding her hand to herself. "You cut me!" she whined in a high, annoying voice.

Hermione smirked, feeling slightly avenged, and offered her the knife's handle. Calmly, she displayed her open left palm –never wanting to risk her own wand hand, though she had just sliced Parkinson's right. The girl took her wrist with unnecessary force and sliced with deliberate unhurriedness. Hermione flinched as she felt the burn of the cut appear right as the blade was pulled away from her open skin. It was a deep cut –deeper than the matching one in Parkinson's hand– and it was bleeding. A lot.

For an instant, she panicked. The blood was coming in waves, flowing quickly down her palm and dropping on the floor. The more she waited, the more it hurt, the more it bled. Parkinson was still holding her wrist, and she was thankful for the warm contact, as it almost let her pretend the pain stopped right where the other's hand was placed. Then, Parkinson tugged and turned her hand around, raising it for better access, at which she gasped and moaned in pain: she had moved a bit, and the twitching had sent ripples of pain all the way up to her shoulder.

As Parkinson's lips reached her palm, she had time to realize that adrenaline had probably numbed the pain some, the time she had been assaulted in that unused classroom; and she had definitely not seen the blood until much later, when it was dry, already a shade of red so dark it almost met brown.

She screamed as she felt the contact of her tongue, pain intensifying, her world going momentarily blank as she gasped for oxygen; as if it were going to help. Parkinson's eyes went to hers once more, she pulled back slowly and she could see the red tinting her lips, aggressive against her pale skin, dripping down her chin. Pansy raised her own wounded hand and brought it closer to her face, but Hermione jumped to reach for it before contact, eager as her body remembered how the euphoria would be much, much better than the pain.

This time, without the violence and the choking sensation of the previous, she could appreciate the metallic taste of the liquid, and gagged a little at its intensity, before  _the feeling_  overtook.

It burnt. Her magic was burning, buzzing, dancing, swirling so quickly within her veins it felt like it would escape, right before reaching her nerves and becoming  _pure_  pleasure. She whimpered, almost blind from the sensation, and kept licking Parkinson's hand, and wrist, and arm quickly taking in all the blood she could see, frantic to get more, more, more,  _more, MORE_. Every drop she took in brought more of that buzz, more of that ecstasy, a stronger conviction that  _nothing_  could ever feel that good.

She was vaguely aware of the tingling feeling on her palm that must be a sign her wound was starting to heal itself, more distracted by the sight of Parkinson in almost orgasm slowly licking through her fingers, tasting her blood as if it were ambrosia. She took her thumb to the other girl's red, red lips, suddenly realising that the colour suited them. There was something truly fascinating about that wonderful state they were in, that feeling they were giving each other, that seemed to want to  _push_  them together almost by force.

It felt like they were both just part of one, single being; way bigger than just the sum of their parts. They belonged together, and they had just been apart for too long. Being apart was wrong, an error of nature, an incongruence that broke the harmony of their magic. They needed to unite, to fix the oversight that had somehow resulted in their separation into two different entities.

Without even noticing, her lips were on hers, and there was a tangle of arms and hair all around them, and it was no longer possible to tell which blood she was tasting, but only one thing mattered: they were  _close_. She wanted to be even  _closer_ , and so they kissed and tumbled around, and their magic merged and resonated and wonderfully filled the air all around them.

* * *

Pansy stumbled through the door in the wee hours of the morning, barely hearing Granger's uncoordinated footsteps right behind her. She had learnt, mainly, three amazing things that night.

The first was that there was a secret corridor that went from the Shriecking Shack to the Whomping Willow –right in the middle of Hogwarts' grounds!–, which had the potential to be used to exit, or enter, the school in secret. Now that was  _good_  information.

The second was that the so-called  _Room Of Requirement_  was absolutely fantastic. It had provided a room as perfect as she had imagined; all rich textures, soft cushions and luxurious, dark woods. Granger had scoffed at the unnecessary comfort –what could one expect, if she was unused to very existence of it?– when they only needed a room in which to draw runes and do some chanting. She had been disappointed, though, when she had tried to exit it with an expensive dressing gown that had transfigured into ordinary fabric right in her arms.

The third was that Granger was absolutely crazy. She had insisted they practice so much that her throat was raw –or had it been all that bloody dust from before?– and her fingertips felt tingly, which was apparently an aftereffect of abusing magic usage, that she had never learnt about. Another aftereffect was the dizziness that was making her walk like a new-born fawn, and which would make for a  _hilarious_  situation if she was caught on her way to the dungeons.

Granger went in the opposite direction and Pansy giggled when she heard her bump against the wall, trying to turn the corner. She hoped the noises did not alert anyone of their presence.

Oh, wait, should she desillusion herself? Could she? She was not sure she knew where her body parts were anymore, she was so tired. She needed to know where they were in order to make them invisible, she thought. Maybe she could just obliviate whomever saw her. Yes, that would be easier, right? That, or blow them up; served the same purpose, and did not ask for accuracy.

What time was it, anyway? It was early, right? Maybe it was even  _fine_  to be already awake at this hour, who knew. She certainly did not. She did not even know where she was.  _Up_ , right, she was  _up_. She lived in the dungeons, so she needed to go  _down_. Yes, that much was clear.

She hoped she could manage to go down the stairs, what with that annoying little tendency they had to  _move_  under one's feet. That would be most terrible, in her situation. Granger was lucky, because she had to go up; and climbing up was easier, much easier than tumbling down. Which was unfair, because the dizziness was the mudblood's fault, to begin with.

She sighed and resigned herself to  _crawl_  down the stairs, because being closer to the ground was always better, even though she knew that her pride would suffer from it in the morning. Well,  _later_  in the morning. Were the carpets dirty? Surely they were not cleaned often enough; and there were so many students, all of them coming back from Hogsmeade with their dirty little boots…

She went down and down, her bum on the stairs, helping herself with her hands on the wooden bars. Damn castle. So much ground all around and they  _had_  to build it vertically. Who was the intellectual author of such nonsense? Whomever it was deserved to die painfully. Very, very painfully.

She stood with difficulties, but tumbling only once, and walked, trying to find the next staircase; she turned left into a wide corridor that she finally recognised as the one leading to Transfigurations, which meant she was, at last, on the ground floor.

She hummed contentedly, and when heading to the next turn, almost shrieked out-loud at seeing two round, yellow, bright spotlights. Bringing a hand to her heart, she forced herself to calm down, increasing the brightness of her  _lumos_  until she could see its reflection in Miss Norris' whiskers.

The little bitchy cat purred and turned around, no doubt looking for its master. Now, that was not a good thing, Pansy's tired mind rationalized. Getting caught while so very clearly affected by both her heightened state and the tired dizziness of magic overuse… Not a good combination, no. They would ask questions. They would discover everything.

Her fingertips burned and prickled uncomfortably; the following day they would be aching for sure. She flicked her wand to silence the little beast, which glared and dashed out. Oh, but Pansy was faster.

The slicing curse was silent and efficient, and so deep that the animal did not even suffer. In a second it bled out, and it was over almost anticlimactically. She went past it and just barely remembered that it was better to vanish it; that would most likely slow down Filch in his quest for revenge. She laughed out loud, feeling a little barmy for doing so in a deserted corridor while standing by a dead cat; but the thought of old, angry, pathetic Filch waging revenge on a  _witch_  was hilarious.

She cleaned up the scene and went on, clenching and unclenching her fists. Circe, her fingertips were  _so_  tingly.

* * *

Theodore sat in front of the fireplace, right leg shaking fast now that Blaise was not there anymore to shout at him to stop acting like a jelly slug. He could not help it, really; it always happened when he was worried.

Pansy was missing. He was certain he had not seen her even once since heading to Hogsmeade the day before, and it was already past four o'clock. Eavesdropping on Greengrass over lunch, he had learned that the curtains on her bed had been drawn since she had left the school to head to the village.

He brought one hand to his lanky hair and brushed the front strands up, forcing them to settle awkwardly on top of his head in precarious equilibrium. Maybe Blaise was right. Maybe he was acting like the idiot he truly was. Then again, Blaise would never be supportive of any action that involved doing something even remotely  _nice_  for a woman, so perhaps he should not be listening to his advice.

He saw Crabbe strutting past his couch, looking like the new king crowned; and subtly turned to follow his graceless form, taking note of everyone who was in the room. Mondays were intense days for the younger Slytherins; and only a few NEWT students were out of class. He could see Montague chatting with Higgs in a corner, most likely about Quidditch, if the exaggerated movements of their hands were any clue. On the other side of the ample room, Millicent and Goyle were exchanging what he truly hoped were not romantic promises. Murton and Farley, two other seventh years, were engrossed in a serious-looking discussion that involved both arithmancy and potions.

Things were moving, and moving fast, outside of Hogwarts. His father had never been a direct sort of man, preferring to speak in subtle hints whenever possible, but he had grasped enough from his ambiguous wording to be certain of a few important things. He knew the Dark Lord had more supporters than most people –on both sides– imagined. He knew over half of his housemate had relatives that were directly involved with the cause, meaning many of them were potentially as well-informed as he was –if not better. And, most importantly, he could tell his father was certain the Ministry would fall before his seventh year of schooling began.

Did the rest of his peers know? Maybe not. But, certainly, they at least knew large-scale conflict was imminent. Which brought him back to his current predicament: what on Slytherin's name was Pansy doing?

It might not look like it at first glance, but if one paid attention to the little details, it was easy to see the tension within the Slytherin dorm. Some desired the Dark Lord's ascension to power –assuming it would also bring their own– while others only though to stay away from any danger, rather satisfied with the current order of things. He, along with Blaise, was part of the second group. Yes, mudbloods were problematic, and a potential threat to their world… but as long as the old families controlled the Wizengamot, it was a well-contained danger. He found it unnecessary to go to war over their right to hold a wand, when they held no real power –political power– anyway. However, if anyone ever found out about his true thoughts, he would be in serious trouble. The  _getting killed_  kind trouble.

And Pansy seemed to be blindly walking toward it.

Had anyone else taken interest in her absence? It was likely. Everyone was keeping tabs on everyone else. It was vital to know whom to talk to if you wanted to join ranks soon enough, and earn all the right favours. It was even more important to know who you could trust if you intended to get out of the country, and fast. He could swear Crabbe and Goyle would be delighted to go after anyone they considered a  _deserter_. Their hands were twitching with the desire to throw their first  _crucio_  within school grounds.

And so, he was worried. Was it not natural, to be worried, in such circumstances? Pansy was someone he had known since childhood, should he not be trying to prevent her walking straight to a very painful death? Sure, they had never been as close as himself and Blaise, and tended to keep their conversations within practical topics… but she was still better than Draco, and it's not like there was anyone else in his very short friend list. He had the awful feeling it was about to become even shorter.

* * *

Hermione gulped down food as if she had not eaten in weeks. She felt rather self-conscious about it, but she had sat near third and fourth years at one end of the table, and they were mostly ignoring her.

It seemed that extreme hunger kicked in right after the ritual. She though it was probably related to the abnormal amounts of magic her body was generating. That was an easily explainable side-effect, and one that did not worry her much.

The other side-effects, though… The way she could feel Parkinson's magic  _within_  her was weird, even slightly creepy, truth be told. If she had to explain it in muggle terms, it was like being extremely aware of the way blood flowed within her veins –another's blood, that was maybe faster, or slower, or denser… That just felt  _different_  from usual.

She was also aware that Parkinson was sleeping, and had a feeling of how far, and roughly in which direction she was. It felt as if there was a permanent  _pull_  on her soul, something that wanted her to go get her; to go achieve  _completeness_  by being closer to her.

Those were, both, distracting sensations. She was worried that the feeling was more intense than the previous time; but then again, so had been the ritual itself. It had probably to do with willingness –she really hoped it was that, and not an escalation with repetition. They could not really afford to escalate much more.

She remembered the previous night as if seeing it through a thin veil, but she still recalled the burning, the pleasure, the ecstasy. Her hands trembled with the memory and she almost dropped a forkful of scrambled eggs. She swallowed, her veins tingling, and a part of her was almost ready to jump and go search for  _more_. She closed her eyes and reined it in, breathing hard. It would fade. The  _need_  would fade.

She felt a slow blush tint her cheeks at the thought. It sounded more… inappropriate than she had intended. What she had felt at seeing –or sensing– Parkinson was an almost incontrollable desire for contact. Not even physical contact, really; something much, much deeper than that. It was their  _insides_  that should be touching, their  _everything_. She theorised that their sudden kissing had arisen from that desire. It had just been their only means of getting even closer. That, too, she hoped did not escalate.

She frowned at a sudden thought, then. Had they also spent a longer time in that state of half-conscious euphoria? She remembered laying with Parkinson on the floor, magic floating all around them, along with silly giggles and sloppy stumbling and a fair amount of dizziness.

It was already dark when they had regained enough composure to venture back into the castle. It had been too late, well after dinner, and so they had returned through the secret passage. She hoped Parkinson did not remember that particular tidbit of information. She snorted at the thought. Of course she would, the damned slippery snake.

It was worrying that when high on magic she became careless about what secrets she let loose. If Parkinson showed that passage to Death Eaters… She was not sure the wards applied in those secret passages, to be honest. Had Sirius had gotten through in human form, once? She thought that was the case. She could only hope that Parkinson had been honest when, long ago in a bathroom-turned-battlefield, she had hinted at being terrified of Death Eaters. Also, the way she was  _obsessed_  with power made her believe she was not too keen on joining Voldemort. Parkinson struck her as someone who would rather not bow to anyone else.

She was awoken from her inner musings by Demelza Robbins handing her a tidily folded note, "from Professor Dumbledore" she said. She vaguely remembered she had handed one to Harry not long ago, too. Was that a coincidence, or was she some sort of favourite?

She was surprised at the note itself, and did not know what to think of its contents. He  _invited_  her to visit him in his office. Her, and only her.

She felt her breath hitch. That could not be a good thing, right?

* * *

She was invited into the room by the door opening even before she had knocked. Surprisingly, what first drew her attention were not the dozing Headmasters' portraits or the famous shifting silvery devices; but a distinct smell of putrefaction. It sweetly clung to the air, as if something rotten had been left in the room for far too long. It contrasted with the sun shining through the many high windows in such an inviting winter morning.

Headmaster Dumbledore rose with a "Miss Granger, please," and offered her a cushioned chair that even Parkinson would have approved of. She drew nearer and sat down with a smile that, she hoped, looked innocently expectant. "Lemon drop?" in other circumstances she might have accepted it, given how her stomach had suddenly turned into a bottomless pit. The smell, though… It made her stomach churn.

"No, thank you, Headmaster," what  _was_  that… smell? No, not really a  _smell_ , actually. Not quite. It was  _something else_ , something that tickled her senses all at once, and yet none in specific at the same time. The air in the office  _felt_  putrid, corrupted.

Professor Dumbledore smiled and took a piece of candy for himself, before settling his unnervingly blue eyes on her. She remembered just in time to drop her sight to his nose, lest she wanted her mind read like an open book. Her heart beat fast with the certainty that she now had secrets to hide from that man.

"How was your weekend, Miss Granger?"

She swallowed. Straight to the point.

"Nice," she wondered if there was any point in the whole conversation. He sounded like he  _knew_. And, frankly, why else would he ask her to his office? "Hogsmeade is always beautiful in the snow," she added, the small-talk enhancing her nervousness.

"Ah, indeed," he agreed cheerfully. "And most enjoyable in the company of good friends, old or new," he chuckled affably, his tone warm and yet his words so piercing. Hermione chose not to answer. She felt herself becoming unusually aware of her own breathing. Was it too laboured? Was it noticeable? The silver instruments whirred and puffed purple smoke, and yet she felt she was louder.

"I was unaware of your recent fondness for Miss Parkinson," he carried on casually, as if they were commenting on the weather, as if the conversation was not carrying that strong undertone of accusation. "And find myself quite baffled as to how it might have originated," he left the sentence hanging, friendly smile still in place, visibly expecting an explanation.

What was she to answer? What plausible explanation could there be for her relationship with Parkinson? None, none at all that she could think of. She should have started thinking of a believable reason weeks ago, instead of waiting until the inevitable question was asked. However, she sincerely doubted there was a correct answer at all.

How much did he know? Should she wait and see, instead of rushing into an elaborate defence? He could be bluffing. Maybe he only knew she had met Parkinson, and nothing else.

"I wouldn't call it  _fondness_ , professor," she started, if only to say something. "Pansy and I have just found some common ground, is all," her name felt foreign on her tongue, and the explanation sounded weak even to herself. Would anyone believe she and Parkinson could hold a friendly conversation about shared interests? Since the alternative was confessing to performing blood magic, she thought it was still worth a try.

Professor Dumbledore's smile lost the little candidness it had contained, even though he maintained a perfectly neutral look. "Ah,  _common ground_ ," he repeated, and it sounded so  _wrong,_ the way he emphasized the words. "May I inquire as to which, specifically?"

Well, she had just walked into that one herself. She thought it was best to settle for half-truths; she had never been a good liar. "We were practicing spellcasting, sir," she said politely, though a certain rigidness was evident in her voice. Did he know about the Room of Requirement, or about their duelling in the bathroom? She honestly had no idea of how much information the Headmaster had. Could the wards, the house-elves or the portraits be keeping him up to date?

She waited. She would not incriminate herself any more than necessary, better to let him do all the talking.

"A most useful pursuit, spellcasting. What sort of spells, Miss Granger, if you don't mind me asking?" he took his blackened right hand from his pocket and joined fingers with his left, right under his nose. The feeling of  _wrongness_  in the room intensified, and she darted a suspicious look toward his injured hand. Was it coming from there?

She refocused on the problem at hand: he  _knew_. She needed to formulate some sort of excuse, but the only thought reverberating in her mind was that  _he knew_. Would she get expelled? Did he have any definitive proof? Could he make such a decision without certain evidence?

"Protective spells," she said, again part truth. There was no way she was going to admit everything out loud, just in case.

"Hmm, a remarkable endeavour. Warding spells are noteworthy both in their value and in their complexity," he praised her. She had the feeling a 'but' was coming right afterwards. "Still, to my –forgive me– quite  _vast_  knowledge, spells of  _that sort_  are rarely protective."

That settled it. No room for doubt. He knew. How, though? Could their ritual be  _felt_? Was their magic spike something noticeable? She had read that good wizards could feel magic like one felt temperature on their skin, so Dumbledore might have managed to sense it even when their ritual had taken place so far away from his office.

What to say? She was not good at diversion, and lying had never come easily to her. She had the awful feeling Parkinson would find her predicament hilarious. Just the thought was annoying.

Any spell she could name required more than two people to cast satisfactorily –which was the root of her problem, in the first place– and she felt herself at a loss for words. Somewhat angry, too. If the Order had agreed to help her, she would not have need to resort to Parkinson in the first place. So, who was he to  _accuse_  her? What should she have done? Stand by and watch? She was a Gryffindor, after all.

"Warding is indeed more complex than I had expected," she agreed, and almost surprised herself at how cold her voice sounded. "I found myself unable to satisfactorily perform any spells  _on my own_ ," she emphasized strongly. She hoped she sounded as recriminatory as she felt.

She had still not looked into his eyes, but the grim line of his lips and the deep fold of his expression lines told her enough: he had caught her meaning. They had abandoned her, and she had been forced to find help somewhere else. How dare he confront her about it? She felt her anger raise slowly, like a snake uncoiling after a winter slumber. That man had no right to chastise her.

"How outstanding, that  _Miss Parkinson's_  help was sufficient to overcome such a hurdle," the way he had said the name made her feel like he meant  _someone else_ , and her brow furrowed. Who could he mean? Or was he just doubting Parkinson's general ability?

"Pansy is an exceptional witch," she lied. Defending her felt even weirder than their whole arrangement, but she thought it sounded like a natural reply. "Her knowledge on traditional spellwork is enlightening," her answers were curt and frigid, and her temper was rising. She was not in the mood for small talk anymore.

Dumbledore's expression was somewhere between saddened and disappointed. It felt like centuries had passed since the day her biggest fear had been to disappoint her professors. He did not press the issue of blood magic, seemingly more interested in her choice of partner-in-crime.

"Forgive my persistence, but I was under the –perhaps ill-formed– impression that Miss Parkinson wasn't exactly partial to muggleborns. Hence, you will surely understand, my confusion," his politeness was grating. She almost wished he would just stand and yell at her. She definitely wished she could yell back. She clenched her fists strongly, the pain somewhat helping her get a hold of her indignation.

"Your confusion is perfectly understandable," she agreed, raising anger buzzing right under her skin. "In fact, I find I share it. I was under the –perhaps, too, ill-formed– impression that you were quite fond of muggles," she paraphrased. "Funny, how first impressions are often inaccurate."

Dumbledore was reminding her which side Parkinson was in. Well, she thought she could remind him too.

"Do you honestly believe Miss Parkinson's offer is more trustworthy than the Order?" He sounded incredulous, and she felt offended. How dare he even insinuate she should trust the Order? Trust them with what?

"Pray tell, professor, how exactly has the Order helped my parents until now?" she said icily, and felt her own magic –along with Parkinson's, all within her– vibrate to the tune of her ire.

He fell silent. The seconds ticked by and she understood she had just made quite the aggressive statement. Well, she had made her opinion clear to McGonagall, and she doubted the woman had failed to transmit it to the Headmaster.

"I see," he answered. He had the ability of sounding like she had truly broken his heart. At this point, she could not trust he truly felt as sorry as he showed. And, even if he did, his regret served her no purpose. Dumbledore could have chosen to help her, and he had not. She was not Harry Potter, after all.

"You seem firm in your decision," he carried on, still sounding grievous, as he stood up. "It saddens me to no avail, and yet I believe your path cannot be swayed by my words at this point –Undoubtedly my fault," he added, as if in apology. She felt his words wash over her and leave nothing but bitterness. He still had not offered to help.

He said nothing else about blood magic or about Parkinson, surprisingly. She wondered why he was not pushing more, why he felt there was no need for any more explanations. He knew what sort of magic she had been using, and yet it seemed like he felt no need for her confession. He had certainly not learnt anything he had not known beforehand, so why was he dismissing her?

There had been no mention of expulsion, no detention, no loss of house points. He had been  _disappointed_ , but surely using blood magic implied a harsher punishment than being forced to feel guilty? It was  _illegal_ , for God's sake!

The door creaked behind her, opening by itself. Clearly, Dumbledore had already got whatever he needed from their conversation. What was it, though? She pushed the question, along with many others, aside to ponder at a later moment.

She stood too. Her legs were weak, but she managed not to shake. She felt tempted to say that her path had never swayed, only her methods. However, they were way past the time for explanations. She much preferred to just get out of under the weight of his gaze.

"Have a good night, Professor," she said politely, nodded, and left.

She was sure her words would have consequences. For one, she was sure she was out of the Order. She dared not think about how that might affect her relationship with Harry and Ron. Dumbledore would need to offer them an explanation. She feared the day she had to explain how she had reached the conclusion that performing blood magic with Pansy Parkinson was a good idea. She doubted they would understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and reviewing. It makes my day! This chapter had no beta, so I apologize for the mistakes it surely contains.


	9. Chess

**Coven. Ch. 9: Chess**

Albus Dumbledore watched, seemingly unmoved –even indifferent–, as young Miss Granger left the room in controlled rage. He marvelled at how someone leaking so much darkness could even manage a modicum of control. As he heard her quick steps down the stairs, he sighed. He removed his half-moon spectacles and brought two fingers to the bridge of his nose, looking for once, as old as he felt; as old as he was.

After all he had seen in his long –too long – life, he could not say he was easily surprised anymore. And yet, three times Miss Granger had surprised him that evening.

First, he had not expected the intense, unmistakably strong flare of magic she emanated. When had young Miss Granger become a witch of such calibre? When had all the eagerness and curiosity transformed into such power? He could remember painfully well the last time a seventeen-year-old had exuded an aura worth noticing. However, with Tom Riddle, he had not been  _surprised_.

Secondly, the darkness. There had been a black, bitter tone to her magic; one she probably had not yet learnt to hide, new as she must be to the Dark Arts. He recognised it, too. He had felt a burst of magic in school grounds barely two weeks before. It had triggered the first of his wards. Unless the second, or third, were triggered, he could be confident whatever darkness was in the magic performed was rather mild. He had –mistakenly– attributed it to some of the older Slytherins; most likely young Mr Malfoy, charged with the cruel duty of murdering him. It was no secret that some of his students would join the Death Eater ranks right after their schooling, and he knew better than anyone that there was nothing to be done about it. Just like he intended to do with Mr Malfoy, he would wait, and he would give them no reason to rush to Tom's side even faster.

And finally, that defiance. That confidence. That tint of rage, of distrust, of opposition in her usually soft eyes. That had painfully reminded him of Severus.

He wondered, not for the first time, if he was making the right decisions.

He had betrayed Severus' trust –weak as it had already been– many years ago, when choosing to side with James Potter and his brave Gryffindor friends. He still vividly remembered the look in young Severus' eyes. He had told him that not only would he not expel Mr Black, he would have him swear an unbreakable vow to not disclose the events that had transpired that night.

At that moment, he had irrevocably sent a young man toward Lord Voldemort. The consequences of his choice tormented him to this day. Should he have expelled Mr Black, and in consequence Mr Lupin? Would that have ensured Severus would not turn, would not listen to Tom's sweet, poisoned words? Would then his young Gryffindors, so vital and necessary during the time of the first Order, still have joined and trusted him without doubt?

Would then Lord Voldemort still have been vanquished by Harry Potter?

He could not know. In his quest to save as many as possible – _The Greater Good_ , a cruel, mocking voice that sounded just like Gellert sang in a corner of his mind– he had made a choice that had condemned, at least, four young wizards. However, he thought in a cruel, clinical way that made him despise himself: it would have been much, much worse, if he had not.

Therefore, was he  _right_  in betraying Miss Granger's trust? She had been a great support to Harry, no doubt; but she was  _already_  dabbling in the Dark Arts. Could her alliance be recovered? The look in her eyes told him that her faith, her blind trust, was lost forever.

He realized –too late now– that he could have prevented her turning if he had offered special protection for her parents. Minerva had insisted he do just that, but the only truly effective protection would be to have Order members guard her parents at all times. He could not afford to.  _The Greater Good_ , laughed the voice again, and he physically felt the pain those words caused him.

He could barely ensure the safety of the Order itself; he had members dying in their own homes, tortured and mutilated, as if Tom was taunting him with the resulting scenes. Their wards were falling, one by one; ripped apart without apparent effort. They were losing the war. He could not afford to have bishops protect pawns.

Place extra wards in the Granger household? He could do that. But Miss Granger did not see that special wards would make the household shine with magic in a muggle neighbourhood. With standard Ministry protection, the house would mingle among the rest, just another building where a muggleborn lived. However, when you protect one of your pieces, you give away that it's important.

In fact, as he had already told the Minister, no warding at all would make the houses of muggleborns a lot harder to track. With warding, they became visible. And if Death Eaters could manage to pick apart wards casted by the Order, how easily would they walk through Ministry ones?

What Miss Granger –or the general population, in fact– could not see was that anonymity was the best protection. He wished, more than anyone would ever know, to explain that to the young witch. However, he did not dare.

She was already too close to Miss Parkinson, and way too deep in the Dark Arts. He had felt something clearly  _wrong_  with her magic, something he had never felt before. As if her magic had not only become darker, but changed its essence completely.

He knew of only one person who could dare to attempt such an unnatural feat: Tom Riddle. He had no proof, but his guesswork was rarely off-mark. Tom had struck once more, and this time it had hit close to home. How he had been able to see through his actions enough to know how to use Miss Granger's only moment of weakness, he could not explain. Oh, how Tom must be enjoying himself at his expense. More taunting, just as he liked. He had taken a muggleborn witch –a perfect example of muggleborn excellence, which he himself had always defended– and turned her against him. Not happy with just that, he had actually managed to select Harry Potter's best friend.

Tom's foresight was, as always, impressive. He doubted the girl could see the fingers pulling the strings behind her own actions just yet, or she would surely not have fallen for his ploy. But he was good at not showing himself until the seed he had planted was ready to bear fruit.

He could not give explanations to Miss Granger for fear of them reaching Tom's ears. Besides, if he had done a good job –and of that, he had no doubt– the girl would not be easily swayed. How could he convince her that the safer option for her parents was to trust  _anonymity_? With the darkness whispering into her ears, and Miss Parkinson's friendship, it would be impossible.

He put on his glasses, stood and approached the large window that overlooked the Hogwarts' grounds. He remembered the words that dictated his whole strategy perfectly: Harry  _will have a power the Dark Lord knows not_ … That was love. That was the white, purity of his heart, of his soul, of his magic that, to this day, had never performed any spell even remotely dark.

He could not let Harry be influenced by the darkness in Miss Granger, it was too great a risk. The young witch was remarkable, a hard-working genius, and removing Harry's good influence might imply losing her forever. But the Dark Arts already had a hold of her, already controlled her temper, commanded her magic like a puppet master. Turning her back might as well be impossible. And, if he tried and she still turned traitor, she could give Tom vital information. No, it was too great a risk. He had given Harry permission to disclose to his friends the most valuable weapon he possessed against Tom: knowledge. Lucky, lucky thing he had not yet told him of the Horcruxes!

The decision he had just made hurt him as much as thinking of young Severus ever did; but he felt he had no choice. Even if Miss Granger could be recovered, the risk was too high. If he trusted her and made a mistake, the whole war could be lost. She already knew too much.

The path to follow was clear: Miss Granger had to be kept away from Harry. As sad as the thought was, and as certain as he felt that losing Harry would turn her to Tom without fault, the possibility of her staying and  _spying_  on the boy was too large a risk. He could already imagine the moral blow it would represent to his young protégées, to his order members, to have Miss Granger brandish the Dark Mark. For such a talented witch, Tom Riddle would manage to find a convincing ancestry that made her, at least, a half-blood. He was more practical than he was prejudiced, of that he had no doubt.

Still, Harry was their only hope, he had to be protected at all costs.

* * *

Pansy woke up with a start, disoriented and feeling a hot ire burning within her. It took her two full minutes of wide-eyed staring at the green curtains surrounding her to fully understand that it was Granger's anger, she was feeling.

She opened the curtains, the unexpected fury distracting her enough to make her clumsy, and rushed toward her trunk. She took out all the pastries she had saved under stasis charms and almost swallowed them whole, too starved to even worry about the possibility of being found in such an unsightly state: bent down on her trunk, eating on her knees like a homeless bum.

She ate all she had saved up since the first of September –which was plenty, considering how Grandmama liked to spoil her with exquisite sweets– and still she felt unsated. She would have to sneak into the kitchens. She headed for a quick shower, and gasped out loud at seeing the clock on the wall. She had slept the whole day away! She groaned, fully aware that her odd behaviour would not be missed. Surely Daphne had already blabbed her big mouth to anyone who cared to listen.

She dressed in a hurry, and charmed her hair into behaving –which was wonderfully easy after the ritual, even if her fingertips still stung– and rushed out of the room only to find herself facing the grey, deep eyes of Theodore Nott. He did not look pleased.

"Pansy," he said in whisper. Seeing as to how everyone else in the room was already staring, the lower tone was rather unnecessary. But Theo had always been all about  _forms_ , and whispering seemed like the most appropriate thing to do. "Would you mind?" he said, with an inviting gesture toward his own room.

She would very much mind, hungry as she was, but his grim expression told her he would not let it go. He opened the door for her, all manners as always, and she sighed in resignation. She did appreciate his concern, particularly after Draco had proven how little he cared, but it was inconvenient.

"Pansy," he sounded tired, as he locked the door with a couple spells she could tell he was not supposed to know. "Where have you been?"

"In my room," she answered, feigning confusion. "Since yesterday morning," she felt the need to elaborate, "something at breakfast didn't sit well with me." Illness was a very plausible explanation, even if it reeked of falsehood.

He narrowed his eyes, and Pansy suddenly realised she had never seen him look that mad. "We both know that's a lie, Pansy. I've known you since you were a toddler, give me some credit," she was surprised at both his directness and his tone. This was not the way Theo spoke to women, it was the way he spoke to  _Blaise_. Where was the boy who fidgeted awkwardly while trying to figure out which was the right moment to start speaking?

He sighed audibly and rumpled his hair –which was unusually messy. She thought it looked good on him–, looking stressed. "Pansy, for Slytherin's sake, what are you doing? Are you aware of how close we are to a full-scale war here?"

Pansy fought down the irritation caused by both Granger's feelings and her extreme hunger. This was far too delicate a conversation to have in her current state. "Yes, I am," she answered curtly.

"Well, then? Are you trying to join the other side?" Pansy gasped at his question. He sounded like he was completely serious, too. How preposterous.

"Of course not! How can you even suggest–"

"Well, because the only logical alternative is you're actively trying to commit suicide!" he cut her harshly. She felt her own brows raise. Had Theodore just  _yelled_  at her? That was a first.

"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped, in a mood. "Who'd want to go along Dumbledore and his court of mudblood twits?"

"Well then, where were you?" he insisted.

"Not here," she just answered, and he rolled his eyes. "Why should I stay here, Theo?" she pressed, "To be looked down on by Daphne? To be supervised by Millicent? Insulted by sodding Zabini? Whose company am I to be  _delighted_  by?"

Theo looked hurt at her implication, and she sighed. "Look, I appreciate your concern," she told him with sincerity, "but you know as well as I do that we've never been each other's first choice for a heartfelt conversation. Hell, I think the longest talk we had last year was a debate on whether Gillyweed can be found in the Yellow Sea!"

"It can't," he said, still frowning. "I checked," he defended, when she glared. Trust him not to be able to let the topic go. He sighed, too. "I know we are not the  _closest_  of friends," he understated, "but I thought we could at least count on each other when it mattered."

They fell silent at that. Could they? A few months ago she would have said yes, they could. Because even when they weren't that close, they at least belonged to the same group. And within that group, Draco, Theo and Millie were the only people she kind of maybe trusted. But Draco had struck her, and Millicent had turned on her without the slightest hesitation. So where did that leave Theo?

"Are you thinking about Draco?" he asked, reading her well. "I'm not Draco," he sounded offended at the thought.

"No, but how long 'til you turn into him?" It was a strange way of putting it, and he certainly disliked it, but they both knew what she meant. It was just better to not say out loud, 'How long 'til you're marked?'

"Draco was a tosser way before that," he pointed out with a grimace. "And you know  _that_  can't be avoided."

Pansy gasped. His wording had hinted clearly enough that he did not wish the Mark. She was not too surprised by the fact –she  _did_  know Theo a little bit– but admitting that out loud, when he doubted her allegiance, was foolish. Was he trying to trick her into spilling the beans?

"And if it could?" she pressed. He tensed. They were having way too dangerous a conversation.

"It can't," he just said. He had a point, though. What-ifs where a waste of time. "Just like you can't avoid the rest of us forever. You don't like the lot of them? Welcome to the club, Pansy. But they're not going anywhere, and neither are us. You've put up with it all since forever, so what's different now?"

What was, indeed?

For starters, the  _possibilities_. When you only have  _the one_  option, you settle for it. No matter how unsatisfactory. But now she had two.

She could marry the man her father picked and be a good girl, never raising her voice in contradiction, never stepping out of line. She was reminded of her mother, brilliant witch if there was ever any, forced to follow Mr Parkinson's poor decisions. If the man played his cards wrong, they would be barely above the likes of Granger in the new regime. And, honestly, he had never been a good player.

Or, she thought, she could take  _power_. She could choose to play the game  _herself_. She smiled, still unusually aware of Granger's magic within her. Dirty or not, it was strong. She would not leave her fate in the hands of that simple, bigheaded man.

"Everything," she answered in a whisper. So much time had passed since the question that the boy had started to shake his leg nervously. "Me. The sides. The  _game_  itself."

* * *

Blaise crumpled the strongly scented piece of parchment, threw it against the window glass and, not happy with just that, set it on fire with a quick wand movement. He just could not believe the gall of that seven times blasted woman. A Death Eater? A bloody, fucking  _Death Eater_? He knew women were irrational, but that seemed a bit too much.

His mother's stellar curriculum was filled with the most obnoxious, pretentious and arrogant bastards; but none of them came even close to the huge problem that would be Corban Yaxley. The bitch had made one big miscalculation there. How was she going to kill one of the Dark Lord's most trusted? Did she plan on sucking his fucking cock to earn forgiveness? He would not put it past her.

Still, whatever she did in the privacy of her bedroom, be it with Yaxley or the fucking Dark Lord, he could not care less. What he cared about were the  _implications_. The dumb bint had thrown away their careful neutrality, and in the process transformed him into the step-son of a Death Eater. And male Death Eater offspring –blood ties or not– was Death Eater material.

He did not know how much money was in the Yaxley vaults, but no amount was worth getting marked. Ah, but why should  _she_  care? If the Dark Lord prevailed, she would be in a great position, enjoying her money and renewed prestige. If he did not, well, she was only the poor, innocent wife, was she not? Oh, but  _he_  would not be so lucky. Victory would mean a lifetime of servitude under a sadistic madman –if what Theo told held true– while defeat would mean Azkaban.

He cursed the whore one more time, startling a passing first year, and headed back to the Common Room.  _Women_ , he thought, would be the death of them all.

* * *

Much like Dumbledore, Severus Snape had seen so many twists and turns unfold in his life that he considered himself to be beyond surprising. And yet nothing could have prepared him for the day Miss Granger and the Dark Arts would share space in the same sentence.

Albus was absolutely convinced, but he refused to believe it until he saw it with his own eyes. Gryffindor know-it-alls did not just delve into the Dark Arts! Much less muggleborns! If the idiot girl had truly been short-sighted enough to get herself under the influence of the Dark Lord, she would win dimwit of the year in his mental poll. The insufferable show-off was at least supposed to be  _smart_. How were Potter and company supposed to survive if the girl turned out to be another scatterbrain?

He turned the corner quickly, robes flowing behind him, when he saw Filch approaching. He grunted. He was not in the mood to answer another set of absurd questions about his damned cat.

Potter and Weasley would not survive on their own within their very homes. Hell, they might starve to death even if locked inside a bakery! Albus had way too much faith in the rude little brat. Only great words –brave, kind, full of love – to describe the power the arrogant runt supposedly had. As far as he knew, the prophesy was just referring to an unnatural amount of pure luck. That, the Dark Lord surely did not possess in such great amounts.

Albus thought it was  _love_  he needed, but surely some  _brain_  would not hurt? And the brain had certainly belonged to someone else, in that trio of evil-doers. Well, now he supposed the brain had not belonged to anyone at all. How could a muggleborn with more than half a neuron deduce joining the Dark Lord was a good idea? Even he himself had been wary of joining, with all his friends already within ranks and a more favourable blood status.

He went down another flight of stairs, heading for the privacy of his office, when he ran into the girl. He felt it then, not as the usual coldness creeping within him, but rather as a sudden slap to the face. He turned sharply and Miss Parkinson was startled by his movement, though she managed a nod and a "Good afternoon, sir," that sounded polite enough.

As he kept walking, suddenly tired, he understood what Albus had meant. The darkness clung to the young girl, unmistakable, almost rude in its obviousness. He could only assume the Granger girl had given off a similar feeling, and if so, then there was certainly no doubt. The girls were knee-deep in it.

* * *

Hermione sat down next to Luna, agitated after her confrontation with the Headmaster. Her friend did not even move an inch, eyes completely focused on a skinny green shoot that sprouted from within a crack on the wall. "Good afternoon, Hermione," her musical voice was soothing, and she felt herself smiling. "You look restless," she commented.

"You didn't even look at me," she complained, with half a laugh.

"You  _feel_  restless," she corrected herself. "I mean, more than usual."

Hermione frowned at her wording. She did not dismiss Luna anymore. Not since that day, at breakfast, when she had known there was something going on between her and Parkinson. "What do you mean?"

Luna turned, at that. "I mean, above your average level of restlessness," she clarified, "assuming my sampling is unbiased."

Hermione resisted the urge to sigh loudly. Sometimes she had the annoying suspicion Luna had fun being deliberately obtuse. "What do you mean, you can  _feel_  my restlessness?" she insisted.

"Ah, that. Well, your magic is oozing. Usually you have a much tighter control on it," she explained. "Not like Ronald, who wears it right under his skin," she added as if an afterthought, surely meant to be clarifying.

"So you can  _feel_  my magic," she said, softly, heart beating faster. Could Luna truly…? The girl nodded, turning back to staring at the weird plant. "And do you think it's changed?" she tried, nervous.

"Of course."

The answer was shorter than she had wished for, and Luna might be answering something else altogether. Again. She would need to be more specific. "Like everyone else's?"

Luna frowned at that. "Can two people change in  _the same_  way?" she asked back, considering the question carefully. Hermione bit her lip in frustration. "I don't think so," was her verdict.

"I mean," she tried again, "can you feel a bigger change in my magic, with respect to other's?" Luna stared at her again, her big, pale eyes almost intimidating. "Maybe it feels… different, like suddenly stronger, or maybe –maybe like someone else's, suddenly?"

"Oh," she exclaimed, understanding dawning on her features. "You mean if I can feel you and Pansy are playing with Dark Magic?"

Hermione lost her breath, unable to find a word to speak. Luna was still looking at her, and for once she thought she was the oblivious one of the two. She nodded, uncertainly. Dumbledore already knew, anyway.

"It's pretty obvious," she said. "Like the way Ronald and Harry smell after a Quidditch match," she exemplified. Hermione felt momentarily horrified by the comparison. "Can't you feel it?" Luna asked, curious. Hermione shook her head. "I guess it's like the way people can't smell their own sweat?" Luna said, shrugged, and went back to her staring.

The reference to smell, as disgusted as it made her feel, was suddenly clarifying. It reminded her of the putrid feeling in Dumbledore's office. A foul, dark feeling coming from his blackened hand. She wondered if it was the result of a dark curse; if she could feel the darkness seeping out of it as one could smell food gone bad. She certainly had not been able to, before. But now… Now she was  _playing_  with Dark Magic.

"Do I feel like food left to rot for way too many days?" she asked, suddenly worried. If other people could notice, just as she had with Dumbledore and the man must have had with herself, it would be troublesome.

Luna seemed confused at that, and blinked slowly as she contemplated the sudden question. "I think you feel like the air before a storm," she said. And, after a stretched silence, she added, worriedly too, "Do I?"

"No!" she rushed to reassure her. "No, not at all."

* * *

Hermione found Parkinson with a tricky tracking spell she had discovered by mistake while investigating warding magic. She had hidden in an empty, unused classroom in the fifth floor. She assumed she had hidden, because she could find no other logical explanation as to why she would be desperately chowing down chocolate muffins in an empty classroom.

Her eyes rested on her lips, but she felt no urge to kiss them. Good. Their impulse the previous night had been… weird. But then again, the Dark Arts had always been strongly associated to  _sin_ , so in her mind the connection between a blood ritual and carnal pleasure was not fully out of place.

"Don't get thoughts above your station," Parkinson sneered, though her smirk was more playful than insulting. Obviously, she had noticed her staring.

She huffed, went slightly red, and unloaded her heavy pack of books on the table. "I'd rather make out with a blast-ended skrewt."

Parkinson shrugged at that, "I guess we all have our fetishes. Who am I to judge?" Hermione settled for ignoring her, until she added "Still better than Weasley." That tricked a laugh out of her.

"Parkinson, we have a problem," she said, interrupting the almost amicable atmosphere. At that, the girl tensed and sat straight. She liked how fast Parkinson could get serious about things; the way she interpreted her moods and saw what was about to come even before she spoke. "Dumbledore knows."

They locked eyes for a few long seconds, both trying to ignore the way their magic reached for the other, the way it sang with happiness and felt  _stronger_ , now that they were together. There was something about that shared feeling, that made her relax, and almost  _crave_  Parkinson's company. Frightening, she thought, the way magic was affecting them.

"How?" she asked finally, in a tone so careful it felt weird coming from her. She could see fear dancing in her usually brash eyes. It did not suit her.

"We were seen, in Hogsmeade," she sighed, "and I was called to his office." Parkinson nodded in encouragement, and waited. "And there –or even before, hell if I know– he could  _feel_  it," she emphasized. "The  _darkness_." Now she understood what the man had  _learnt_  in their meeting. He had probably only wanted to see –to feel– up close.

Parkinson processed that information carefully, and said, clearly just realizing it, "Snape. Snape could feel it in me, too."

Snape had always kept close contact with the Dark Arts –too close, some would even think–, so she assumed it was not surprising he was well attuned to the feel of them.

"Others may be able to feel it too," she had reached this conclusion even before receiving this new piece of information, and was especially concerned regarding her professors, or some of the older Slytherins. "And I'm sure there must be a way to hide it," surely dark wizards did not go around openly displaying their affinities. Parkinson nodded once more, following her without needing word-by-word spelling, and she could not help but compare her favourably to Harry and Ron. In this sense, at least.

"So, I went to the Library," she started, and Parkinson snorted rudely, which she ignored with an ease she was learning to master. "And I found some books on Occlumency. Apparently, there is a strong link between keeping your mind closed, and keeping your feelings and magic tightly contained," she explained. "We should learn it." She had been uncertain of how Parkinson would receive any suggestion coming from her. However, she was not only listening, but agreeing once more.

"I have some in the library at home," she answered. "Keep those," she sneered, all pureblood elitism once more. She rolled her eyes, but was almost grateful to find she was still her pampered, hateful self. She could not deal with so much change, so quickly.

"I gather they both know Legilimency, Dumbledore and Snape?" she asked.

Hermione nodded. "And Voldemort." Parkinson flinched at the name, and glared. "Try to learn on your own," she kept on, "I'd like to avoid us practicing on each other." The girl clearly agreed to that, going slightly pale at the thought. "As we gain control of our thoughts, we should be able to contain the way our magic seeps out. It's all in the books."

"Yes, yes. Read the books, I got it," she said, dismissing her with a hand movement befitting of a queen.

Hermione was learning fast that the best way to deal with Parkinson was to ignore her, no matter how grating her behaviour. She stood and headed for the door, ready for a night of cramming. She wondered how long it would take her to master one of the hardest disciplines of magic, and whether she would eventually need help, even if only for testing. She was mentally drafting a studying schedule when Parkinson called her name. The question that followed was unexpected.

"What will you do now?" her tone was neutral, face impassive, not letting anything through. Maybe she would master Occlumency faster than herself.

"Save my parents," she did not pretend for a moment she was not following her trend of thought. "And fight."

"Along Dumbledore's band of merrymakers?" she pushed.

Hermione snorted loudly. "Not  _pure_  enough anymore," she said, more bitterly than she had intended. She had not been worth the effort, even, of fighting to keep. Dumbledore had sent her away, finality in his sad, sad eyes.

Parkinson looked genuinely surprised at that. "So, no second chances? No forgiveness? No  _love_ will save the day?"

"None for me, no," she confirmed, trying to control the way she felt like she was breaking inside. Harry. She would lose Harry and Ron forever. A five-year friendship that had taken her so much effort to build, and he would take it away with a few words.

The link they shared, though, ensured she could not hide such a strong feeling from Parkinson. The bitch, of course, had the gall to look  _smug_.

"Good, then, Granger" she even said. "Now we'll have all the time in the world, just to ourselves."

And wasn't that thought terrifying?

* * *

Luna wondered if whistling would work. Singing had certainly not, but maybe the plant had not cared for the lyrics? She tried a tiny whistle, but the sprout flailed against the wind, helpless. Maybe she was not good enough at whistling?

She had tried all she could think of, and yet nothing seemed to work. This was one difficult shoot, she thought,  _so picky_. She brought her attention to the sky, remembering she should go back inside before dinner time. Her prefect got annoyed when she had to come out to fetch her.

Her thoughts went back to her recent conversation with Hermione. It had been nice of her to stay keeping her company, even when she had gotten the answers she craved. She  _had_  changed, she reflected. She had gotten much, much nicer. She liked this new version of Hermione. She was finally flying on her own, going beyond the oppressive regulations of textbooks and professors and rules and curfews.  _Curfews_! Why would someone feel the need to tell her it was time to stop learning for the day?

Luna wished to have someone who was unwilling to stop learning, too. Someone she could speak to, someone who would not scoff and snort at her ideas, someone who was willing to listen, and investigate, and discover the world together with her. She thought this new Hermione might.

For starters, she knew next to nothing about Dark Magic. Her father, always enthusiastic about knowledge, had frowned at the words. "Not that, my sun and stars, not that," he had said.

But Hermione was doing just that, was she not? And she was  _dying_  to know more about it. Maybe she could ask, she thought. Maybe she could learn along with them, Hermione and Pansy. She looked down at her feet, at the pretty shoes that had not been stolen yet. She liked Pansy too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Gremlin Jack and silverlovedragoness for betaing this chapter. Thanks for all your comments and kudos, I hope you've enjoyed this one too.


	10. Cast

**Coven. Ch. 10: Cast**

She did not even know why she had bothered wearing shoes that would make her feet hurt to a party she had not even wanted to attend. Asking Ginny had been a mistake. Yes, the damned things were pretty, but she would pay for her vanity.

She walked back to where Luna stood alone, cursing the heels along the way, and passed her a glass of butterbeer. "Where's Harry?" she asked, looking around. Dumbledore was yet to make his move, and so they remained on good terms. For the moment. She had thought of explaining herself beforehand, but had yet to come up with an excuse that Harry would be able to accept. She would rather not lie to him, but the truth was unpalatable.

"He just left, right behind professor Snape and Draco Malfoy," she explained, and Hermione frowned at that. Malfoy? At the party? And had Harry actually  _truly_  left? She huffed in irritation. She wished she could go tell Ron. The Malfoy obsession was getting out of hand again.

"Did he say if he'd be back?" she asked.

"He didn't say anything at all," she answered in her usual, dreamy tone, but Hermione though she could hear the sadness behind her voice. Luna had been delighted to be invited to the party, even if Harry had felt the need to mention it was only as friends at least twenty times.

"Well, I guess you are here as  _my_  date now, then," she just snapped. She would have a couple of words with Harry, while she still could. He was loyal to a fault, but tact and consideration were clearly not his forte.

Luna beamed at her, so delighted her heart skipped a beat. She had never realized just how radiant she could look when she was happy. She smiled back, and they moved to the canapé table as the dancing started to invade their standing area.

As she popped in a little toast, all manners of small delicacies piled on top that threatened to tumble down, a loud voice right behind her startled her and made her almost choke.

"Your shoes are gorgeous!" the cheerful, amicable tone was unmistakable, and had been dearly missed. She turned to see Garcia and Charity all smartened up, the latter looking down at her feet in adoration.

"Very," Garcia agreed with critical eye. "But I must confess I'll vote for sensible flats any day of the week," she said while looking at Luna's white and sparkly ballerinas, envious.

"Thank you," Luna said gracefully. "The new anti-nargle charm is working splendidly," she beamed, very pleased.

The newcomers looked confused, and Hermione decided to intervene before too many questions were asked.

"You are wearing heels yourself," she pointed out, diverting the attention from Luna. She had the feeling Garcia would have  _opinions_  on nargles.

"Ah, yes!" Garcia said in a dramatically regretful voice. "Chari gifted them to me last Christmas," she explained sulkily. "The heels are exactly seven centimetres high!" she added, as if it clarified everything. Hermione had the suspicion it actually did, at least for her. At Luna's questioning look, she went on "I just couldn't help it." Luna nodded thoughtfully.

Charity looked very smug right next to her, wearing some monstrous heels herself, that helped counter her very short stature. She wondered if being short helped her maintain equilibrium. It was either that, or a very specific spell-set that she needed to learn. Women were expected to defy gravity much too often.

"Were you invited by professor Slughorn or are you also someone else's date?" Luna asked out of the blue, and took a sip of butterbeer.

"Chari was, 'cause her cousin is right there, Gwenog Jones," Garcia explained. "She gives Slughorn free tickets to the Harpies' matches whenever he wants. I just came with her."

"With Gwenog Jones?" Luna asked. "She doesn't seem to be keeping you company, either," she pointed out.

"No, she came with me," Charity corrected nicely, the only tactful person within her trio of girlfriends.

Luna nodded at that, and sipped again. "I came with Harry, but he left."

"Like, without you?" Charity asked disapprovingly, and now understanding Luna's previous comment. At her following, absent-minded nod, she turned to face Hermione. "Your friends are  _so_  not very nice," she sentenced.

"Oh, Harry is nice," Luna defended, "he just doesn't see much beyond himself, sometimes."

"And I'll bet Ronald doesn't see much beyond his girlfriend's throat," Garcia snorted. "You're not missing out, girl," she said to Luna, "if Potter actually shares the same skill set. Better look elsewhere."

"Oh, no, now I'm here with Hermione," Luna felt the need to clarify. It was nice of her to want to respect their arrangement –unlike Harry had done– but Hermione thought it had sounded a bit…

"As in  _lesbians_ , or as in 'Oh, boy, all the hot guys are taken, what are we to do?' like me and Chari?" Garcia asked loudly, going in the direction Hermione had feared.

Luna looked back at her seriously, expression so serene Garcia looked actually taken aback, and pondered for a few seconds. "Well, I don't really know about the hot guys," she finally answered carefully, "but I don't think Hermione's particularly partial to women."

Hermione felt herself blush slightly and was about to cut short the exchange of opinions regarding her sexuality that was undoubtedly going to be continued by Garcia, when they were interrupted by Blaise Zabini.

"Ladies," he greeted Luna and Charity arrogantly, sneer perpetually in place, crossing through their circle to access the canapés. Then, glancing right in Hermione and Garcia's direction, he added with contempt, "mudbloods."

Hermione felt the familiar hot rage swirl through her, and kept still. Her Occlumency textbooks had been clear, precise and explicit; she knew what to do. She had read that bursts of anger could result in her magic flaring brightly, and in a room full of renowned personalities, there was bound to be someone who would feel her. " _Control"_ , she thought, " _keep it tightly coiled inside"_.

She focused, but her attempt at Occlumency fell completely into disarray at Luna's unexpected question.

"Is this one of the hot guys?" she asked, genuinely curious expression in her face, as if the man himself was not standing right there.

"Oh, yes," Garcia confirmed, shamelessly giving him a slow once-over, as if eyeing a piece of meat.

"You might be better off as lesbians," Luna advised frowning her brows, as if worried about them.

Hermione had to smother a laugh, though Zabini did not even notice, busy as he was gaping at Luna and Garcia. She though his glare might have cowed most of the student body, but then again he was not dealing with you average student. Luna faced his hateful look with childlike serenity, never uncomfortable in a prolonged silence. Garcia, bless the woman, seemed to be having  _fun_.

"What did you just say?" he hissed, slowly walking toward them in a threatening manner.

Charity, right beside her, tensed. However, to their credit, the other two girls did not bat an eyelid.

Luna frowned, but provided, "Lesbian. Of or relating to Lesbos. It's a Greek island," Garcia guffawed by her side, not having expected such a  _Luna_  answer. Zabini went even more rigid, if possible. Hermione suspected that, had his perfect skin not been so very dark, he would be flushed red. "It's also known as Lezbolar, or Mytilene," she pointed out politely, as if trying to help him understand.

Hermione did not think Zabini, who was clearly prone to take offense, would dare to take out his wand when he was standing right in the middle of their circle –really, quite foolish of him–; but she let her own hand hover over her holster, just in case.

"Though you might have been thinking about sexual intercourse between women," Luna noted, and sipped some more butterbeer.

"I certainly was," Garcia chimed in.

"It's okay," Luna said, not paying attention to Zabini anymore. "I do it too."

Zabini took one step back at that, aversion painted on his handsome features. "Unnatural," he snarled, "like  _animals_."

Hermione thought that what hurt most, about them, was not the hatred or the casual slurs. It was that they truly  _believed_  it. Malfoy might hate Harry with a vengeance, but he did not think of him as an  _animal_ , as inferior, as something so very dirty it should not be  _touched_. She thought back to Parkinson's actions at the library, the day when it had all begun, and she felt hurt.

Thankfully, that was not a problem Luna had. She just nodded, and provided "Like Laysan Albatrosses," she said, "or Mooncalves." She paused briefly. "Some people say Nundus, but the truth is, no one's gotten close enough to statistically study their sexual preferences."

"You're fucking demented," Zabini snapped. "You really think about animal sex," he sounded so horrified, she had to admit it was almost funny.

"We all have our kinks," Garcia chimed in, all fake innocence. She was amazed Zabini was actually  _buying_  it. Anyone else would have seen she was just pulling his leg. But then again, she was playing his own prejudices against him.

Garcia took a step toward him, and he rushed to get out of her way, almost colliding with the dainty little table in his hurriedness, repelled by the mere thought of her touch. Silence took over them as they watched him leave, amused.

"I like high heels," Luna suddenly contributed, following the conversation, and looked at their shoes. It seemed quite clear that she did not mean on herself.

* * *

The night slowly deteriorated as they discovered someone had smuggled firewhisky into the party –not that Luna and Garcia needed it in order to make completely inappropriate comments– and the four of them had retired to one of the solitary alcoves, covered by dense, velvety curtains in deep tones of purple and green.

"Think about it," Garcia slurred, eyes slightly unfocused, "we have three colours that correspond to precious metals, right? That's gold, and silver, and copper," she started.

"Bronze, it's bronze," Charity corrected while taking one big swig of heavily spiked drink.

"Whatever," she dismissed. "So, three like, important colours. Metals, all of them" she repeated, and then insisted, "It's a  _theme_. Gryffindor, Slytherin and Ravenclaw. And then, here comes Hufflepuff, with  _black_. I mean, come on! Copper was actually free! But no, they gave Lady Hufflepuff  _black_."

Garcia had been trying to convince them for the past half an hour that Helga Hufflepluff had been bullied by the Founders, and her reasoning was slowly starting to become ridiculous.

"And then, there's the animal," she kept going, "There's a lion, the king of the jungle. Then there's an eagle, the king of the skies. And then the snakes, fluid like water and slippery like Slytherins. Very royal animals, all of them."

"Snakes are kings of nothing," Charity chimed in once more, but her contribution was dismissed just as easily.

"And then there is us!" she shouted sluggishly, "And we get a badger! A tiny, furry, little, cute thing. We are supposed to represent the Earth, out of the four elements. Lady Hufflepuff could have gotten a  _bear_! A big, brown bear! Bears are protective, and  _loyal_! That would be the best Huffly symbol ever!" she struggled to finish. "They probably only picked the woman because of the repeated initials, to go with their theme."

Charity rolled her eyes and Hermione giggled, too drunk to find anything she said less than hilarious.

Luna was staring at her glass with misty eyes, but she might have been perfectly serene, for all they knew. "Actually, African honey badgers can reduce snakes to shredded flesh, and a single one of them is able to kill three lions on its own."

Garcia halted her monologue with a start. She was quiet for a few long seconds, mouth open unflatteringly, "Seriously?" she finally asked, throwing Luna an awed look.

"We rock!" Charity shouted out loudly, trying to stand in the process and almost falling to ground, which had Hermione fighting the silly giggles once more. She could not remember the last time she had  _laughed_. She finished her glass and told herself she deserved some laughter. The past month had been utterly miserable.

"I think you could kill like, all of us lions," Hermione told Garcia, speaking slowly to find the right words in her mind. "You only need to speak for a long enough time," she joked, and laughed out loud on her own until her sides hurt.

Garcia pouted, and said, "I'd start with you," and Hermione answered that yes, she would most likely be the first one to jump out the window.

"Nah," Charity dismissed, "she'd not kill you all. She'd stop at seven, 'cause it be too perfect a number to go," she hiccupped, "on," she noted.

"Ah, you're right," Garcia agreed.

"Seven  _is_  a good number," Luna agreed, making Charity dramatically shout, "Not you, too!"

"The  _most_  magical," Garcia said sagely. "Which reminds me, I've only had  _five_  glasses," and she went on to remedy it.

* * *

The four of them sat together in a compartment within the Hogwarts Express. She had briefly entertained the idea of going to sit with Harry and Ron, but she was not in speaking terms with the latter, and the knowledge of her imminent fall out with Harry had her on edge. She had the inkling it would happen during the holidays. She knew, despite her best wishes, that a trip back to London with them would be a nightmare.

Charity had passed a round of hangover potions, for which she would be eternally grateful, and they lazed around enjoying the excess of space given by being four rather small girls.

"You know," Garcia started, "I dreamed of Zabini last night."

"I though you never had nightmares," Charity said, eyes closed and massaging her temples. Even hangover potions were not miracle workers.

"Oh, I assure you it wasn't a nightmare.  _Au contraire, ma chérie,_ " she answered, smugly.

Charity briefly opened her eyes to throw her an utterly disgusted look at catching her innuendo. "But he's a complete jerk!"

"But a  _beautiful_  one," she pointed out. Well, no one could really deny that.

The door was suddenly yanked open in a brusque way, so rude that the action could have only belonged to two people she had the dubious pleasure of knowing. And Garcia was already within the compartment.

"Parkinson," Hermione announced, displeased.

"I see you've forsaken Scarface and Freckles," she drawled. "I can't help but approve. People should, no matter their station, always strive to improve themselves."

"Keep trying, Parkinson. The rudeness may eventually fade," she suggested, saccharine smile in place.

"Hi Pansy," Luna interrupted what was surely a scathing remark, about to leave Parkinson's lips. "I  _love_  your shoes," she mentioned.

Garcia raised her brows suggestively at the other two girls, and Hermione shushed her.

"Well,  _duh_ ," was Parkinson's only answer, together with an eye-roll. "Here," she said to Hermione, and threw a piece of parchment on her lap. She left without bothering to close the door behind herself, and they could hear the confident click-clacking of her high heels as she went away.

"What the hell was that about?" both Garcia and Charity were oscillating between indignant and intrigued. Luna had gone back to reading the last number of the Quibbler.

"Joint detention," she lied smoothly. "We fought in the Library," she explained, rolling her eyes for emphasis. "She almost blew my head off!"

She opened the note discretely. She had given Parkinson incredibly specific instructions on how to reach her house –including some regarding taking the Knight Bus, since she doubted the pureblood girl ever had– but still she feared she would not manage. She had even drawn her a map, and to scale.

The answer, though, was a rather rude drawing of Parkinson rolling her eyes and setting her map on fire. It only said,  _7 p.m. on the 23rd_. Hermione crumpled it, pissed off. The woman really was unbeaten in the game of being insufferable. If only she did not need her to place wards on her house…

* * *

Pansy blinked once, then twice, and then just lost all ability to do it again. The muggle had soft, brown hair falling in gentle waves, but was otherwise an aged version of Granger. She assumed it was her mother –or grandmother maybe? She looked slightly old– standing there, expectantly waiting.

They locked eyes in uncomfortable silence until the female muggle frowned and just stepped back inside to shout, "Hermione, dear, your friend's here!" and then looked once more at her with a smile. "Hermione told us you aren't used to muggle houses, so if there's anything you don't understand, please don't hesitate to ask," she offered in a kind voice that grated her slightly. What did she mean, not understand? Was that muggle  _patronizing_  her?

She heard the hurried stomping of Granger –she supposed– coming down some stairs until her untamed mane of wild curls came into view, and her right behind it. "Pansy! You're early," she exclaimed with a tense smile on her lips, approaching quickly.

Pansy? Had she just called her  _Pansy_?

"Mum, just go see if dad's managing in the kitchen. I'll show Pansy inside," she suggested, and the muggle went back in with that affable expression still in place. "Also, I told you not to open the door to anyone!" she shouted after her.

Granger ushered her in and quickly took her to what she guessed was the living room, pulling on her arm strongly. It was small, about the size of her own bedroom. But she had seen how Grandmama's service lived, and she guessed the Grangers were doing well enough.

She took in her very muggle surroundings, full of strange objects and shapely decorations, and realized she was shaking a bit. Everything around her was very, very muggle. Actually, that had been her  _first time_  seeing one of them up close, she realized. It had even  _spoken_  to her! She had been surprised at how well it did, how articulate the muggle was. Nothing in its intonation, pronunciation nor expressions had given it away immediately. She almost thought she would not have been able to tell it apart from a witch, if she had not known beforehand.

"You said you would come at seven!" Granger interrupted her inner musings, nervously. She kept throwing furtive glances in the direction of the kitchen, visible through some sort of open window inside the living. How very weird, a window  _inside_  the house. "I would have come out to pick you up!"

"I can find a muggle house on my own just fine," she sneered, finally finding her voice again. She'd rather die than admit it had taken her three full hours of helpless wandering. "Though it might have been better if you'd had time to take care of them beforehand,  _that_  I admit," she granted her gracefully.

Granger looked confused now, and wary. "What do you mean, take care of them?"

"Well, put them to sleep, or whatever you want to do with them while we work," she explained in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Parkinson!" she exclaimed in a furious whisper, getting red faster than she thought humanely possible. "I will not  _put them to sleep_! They're my parents, not some  _animals_ ," she said, angrier that she had ever seen her. Even through their weakening bond, she could feel her rage. "They can understand what's going on here!"

Now it was her turn to look confused. She kind of understood the whole "not some animals" idea, if they had birthed her; but what did she intend to do? Explain what they were doing? Explain the complex, protective wards they were about to cast? To be frank, it did not sound like a good idea at all. Granger should know, muggles were  _afraid_  of magic. That was the whole reason they were keeping themselves hidden; not to scare them. Everyone knew scared muggles became easily  _violent_.

"Well, hello, hello," interrupted another muggle, this one male. He shared Granger's wild curls, even though darker in colour and way shorter, but just as unflattering. "Hermione here told us you two are going to do some  _hocus pocus_  on us!"

Eh?  _Hocus_  what? Was that the name of one of the spells? Never mind that Granger had actually explained it to them –the madwoman–, it actually sounded  _ridiculous_.

"Dad!" Granger exclaimed. "Don't say confusing things," she reprimanded him, and then looked back at her. "It's just an expression muggles use when talking about magic in general, like  _Abracadabra_ ," she explained, though that made even less sense to her.

"Muggles know about the killing curse?" she whispered in shock, throwing cautious looks toward the other two inhabitants of the house. How would they react, if they were to learn they could be killed with just one word?

"No, no, they don't," Granger explained in a calming voice. "Muggles don't know about magic, it's just a  _legend_  to them." She started, and actually waited for Pansy to nod before going on. "Some legends contain part of the truth; like stories about Unicorns. Others, though, have become deformed with time.  _Abracadabra_  is just a meaningless word that imitates an incantation –any incantation– though it probably derives from the original unforgivable.  _Hocus pocus_  is a similar thing, it just means: some magic."

Pansy nodded once more, because it seemed like the right thing to do, but she was still rather confused. Why would muggles imitate incantations if they were scared of magic? Maybe for horror bedtime stories?

"Ah, sorry, my wife did remind me you were a first-timer!" the male said approaching her with a warm smile, and clasping her hand within his own before she had time to react. "I'm Mike Granger, nice to meet you."

Pansy managed a weak "likewise" that was more reflex than anything else, still focused on the warmth remaining from the contact with his soft hand. Her heart was beating incredibly fast, and she had to fight the impulse of rushing to find a bathroom to wash. Still, so  _soft_ , so  _warm_. Just like Granger's. Her mother's old sayings had been wrong again; they felt the same as wizards. Even through touch, she thought, she might not be able to tell them apart. She wondered briefly about their blood. Granger's had, in the end, looked just like hers. Did theirs?

The female came back with a tray of tea in hand, which gave a perfect excuse to not shake hands, and introduced herself as Sarah Granger. By her side, Granger looked as tense as she felt, while inviting her to sit down for tea. The female muggle started serving and she felt a lump down her throat at the thought that she was expected to  _drink_  that.

She swallowed nervously, still trying to get a grip on herself. She had not thought she would be facing such a situation. She found herself confused to the point of disorientation. Everything had happened so quickly, she had been unable to react. How had a pureblood witch of impeccable pedigree ended up sitting for tea with a bunch of  _muggles_?

"Mike, are you paying attention to the dinner?" she asked with a soft glance toward him.

"Of course I am," he said, but he still left for the kitchen.

Wait, the  _male_  was the one cooking? While all three of them stayed in the living room making small talk? How – how very unexpected. Of course, she should not be surprised that they had their own, different social rules. Her mother had once described muggle society as  _primitive_ , which she had in turn associated with  _antiquated_. Apparently, the distinction between their cultures was far more complex. For starters, female muggles truly had an iron hold on their males. She was reluctantly  _impressed_  by that fact. Granger's mother –Sarah, had she said?– showed such confident demeanour, having sent her male back to serving them with one single sentence. She had even made it sound not like an order.

"So, Pansy, I assume you have been reading the Prophet lately?" she started, once more taking her completely unawares. "What do you think of Scrimgeour?"

Politics. The muggle wanted to talk wizarding politics! Not even  _witches_  talked politics over tea. That was a topic reserved for men, at least openly. Women exchanged subtle hints and little comments that sounded more like gossip, but had the same kind of undercurrents. Apparently, muggle society worked in the opposite way. Males fetched tea, females discussed politics.

As the two Granger women looked at her expectantly, younger Granger with a worried frown, she realized she had been quiet for way too long. She went slightly red at that, and promptly answered. "Better than Fudge," she said, "who was Lucius Malfoy's clown. But most likely still not good enough," she sentenced. If muggle females could talk politics,  _she_  would not be left behind. She hoped her short and concise analysis, so very unlike any pureblood witch she had ever met, sounded satisfactory.

The female muggle nodded in agreement, "He seems way more worried about what people believe the Ministry is accomplishing, than about actually accomplishing anything. Not that such a thing is unusual in politics, sadly," she lamented. "However, you are right about Fudge. It's hard to do worse."

"Also good that he is actually going  _against_  Malfoy and the like, for a change," Granger added. Well, indeed. The clown show from the previous year had just been embarrassing.

"Him being in jail must help," her mother contributed, hitting the mark. "You know that Malfoy boy too, don't you Pansy?" she asked, subtly trying to pull her into the conversation. She recognized that behaviour: the muggle was  _hosting_. In that, they behaved similarly. She smiled, trying to recover the composure brought by her impeccable breeding. She was still trembling, but she would not look like a  _fool_  in front of some muggles.

"Yes, we are in the same House," she answered, "and childhood friends, too."

Now, that had obviously not been the right thing to say. The female was looking at her with unhidden shock, and even the male had shown his face through the kitchen window. The silence was an uncomfortable one, in which the muggles seemed to be reaching the correct idea about her –which, she understood by Granger's horrified expression, was not a good thing– rather quickly.

"He's a twat," she added, hopefully, and that defused the tension.

The female chuckled and the man laughed warmly, "Well, what can you expect from anyone named  _Dragon_ ," he said in good humour.

"His mother's name is  _Narcissa_ , so not modesty, that's for sure" she contributed, and then wondered if they would get the reference to the legend of Narcissus.

They did, judging by their chuckles. She was once more surprised at how  _literate_  they appeared to be. Greg and Vince would not have gotten that, and they were purebloods. The muggles, though, were not only informed about wizarding actuality, they even  _understood_  the undercurrents ruling their world. They spoke as if they were… as if they were  _people_.

She took an experimental sip of tea, and indeed, it tasted just like  _tea_. She was left with the unthinkable conclusion that those muggles were  _civilized_. She wondered if it had been an effect Granger had had on them, or if that humanity they displayed was the reason they had managed to produce wizarding offspring.

The male went back into the kitchen to continue his work, and the woman smiled kindly at her once more. "We are very pleased that Hermione brought a friend home," she said, and Granger went suddenly red and yelled "Mum!" but was ignored in that easy way all mothers possess. That made her giggle. "Until now it had only been Harry and that Ronald boy who eats with his mouth open," she explained, clearly disapproving of low manners.

Pansy found herself  _kind of_   _liking_  the muggle female well enough. Anyone who realized Weasley was a pig had a minimum of intelligence speaking for themselves. Besides, they were actually better mannered than the Weasleys. True, not the  _best_  family, but still purebloods. No wonder Granger was smart, she thought. Those muggles must be some sort of unnatural development within their kind.

"Mum, really," Granger insisted once more, but was not so eager to defend the boy herself. In her opinion, she shouldn't.

"Ronald's also a twat," Pansy contributed, earning another approving chuckle. Of course, she was charming them impeccably.

The woman asked her daughter to bring the tea set back into the kitchen. Surprisingly, Granger stood and walked there the muggle way. She was, once more, awed at the power of that muggle woman. She was obviously the queen of the household, despite being female and non-magical.

"We think she needs more girl friends," she told her conspiratorially. "Harry and Ronald were her first, but the way they just end up fighting every now and then…" she shook her head.

Pansy nodded, and shared her information too. Gossiping worked the same way in any world, that was clear. "At least once every year. Right now she's not talking to Ronald. He's dating the Brown girl, and that has caused quite a rift," she said smoothly.

The woman frowned in clear disapproval. "That's Lavender, right? That really mean girl," she remembered.

Pansy nodded once more, as Granger came back with a suspicious look that she returned with one of clearly fake innocence. Oh, now she was starting to enjoy herself! How delightfully unexpected.

"How's your father doing with dinner, Hermione?" she asked, clearly to deviate the conversation. Granger's mother was way more cunning than her daughter.

"He says he's almost done, so I would at least count one hour," she answered with what seemed like an inside joke.

The woman was about to respond when some sort of alarm went off, which startled her. One hand on her heart and the other already reaching for her wand, she felt Granger's fingers clutching her forearm as the muggle woman raised.

"Calm down, Park–Pansy, it's just the phone," she said, making no sense whatsoever. "That device there," she went on, pointing at a black, elongated thing that she had taken for a bizarre muggle decoration. "It works a bit like speaking through the Floo, but you only hear the other person's voice. The telephone –that's the name of the device– rings, and you know someone wants to speak to you."

She observed the woman pick up the device and start speaking, and could also hear a faint murmur in response, though there was nobody else in the room.

"You charmed something to let your parents speak to other muggles?" she asked indignantly. How could she be so irresponsible! That surely broke the Statue of Secrecy!

"No, no," she insisted quickly, "it's a muggle thing. All muggles have one of these, to talk to people who are far away. It works with electricity," she went on. "That's an energy that muggles commercialize. It reaches our devices through those long, black cords you can see everywhere," she said pointing at a few places. She suddenly realized there were a lot of those devices, "which are called cables, and powers them on."

Energy? Energy, but not magic? How was that even possible?

"We make the energy in specific plants," the male muggle chimed in, entering the living area while wiping his hands with a cloth. "And then it travels through cables, which are hidden in the walls and under the streets."

"You  _make_  it?" she could not help herself from asking.

"Yes, through, for example, water power or heat coming from the sun," he explained expertly.

Pansy was shocked speechless. That did not make any sense, no matter how she thought about it. "You transform water into  _ilictricity_ ," she tried to summarize, "and then you can hear voices from people who are far away?"

How was that not some sort of  _magic_? Weirdly specific, but still.

"We call it science," the man said with a proud glint in his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thank you all for leaving nice comments (or kudos).
> 
> I've been asked about my update schedule. I can only say that I'm trying to go for once a week during the summer (including at least part of September), but then I'll start working again. It's my last year of PhD, and I can already see it's gonna be tough. I can't really promise anything, but I'll try to update as often as I can!
> 
> Thanks to Gremlin Jack and silverlovedragoness for betaing this once more!


	11. Clean

**Coven. Ch. 11: Clean**

During the half hour that was still needed for the food to cook itself in yet another one of those  _scientifical_  devices –which she had gathered were ordinary-looking things that performed muggle magic, or  _science_ – she understood that Granger's father was the  _expert_  of the house. He understood how the  _science_  worked, unlike Granger's mother, and took care of the maintenance of all the devices.

She was shown the  _telly_  –like a radio, but with images, Granger had explained–, she talked to Mike through the  _tellyphone_  despite being separated by at least two walls, gone around two house blocks with the car –the muggle carriage that actually drove itself, without any need for invisible thestrals, and was quite more smooth in movement– and observed the  _mincrowave_  heat water.

She was equal parts astonished and fascinated. Mike had actually explained to her that he had not been the one to make all those devices, that there were workshops destined to produce them, and he only had to make them enter in contact with  _ilictricity_. He had explained that muggles had developed them through many years, in order to combat the lack of comfort in their day to day lives. As they did not have magic, they had needed to become ingenious, and finally found a workaround.

Pansy had been raised being repeatedly told otherwise, but she was not stupid, and she could appreciate the truth when she saw it. The truth was actually  _screaming_  at her face. Muggles were  _kind of_   _smart_.

It made sense, actually. How else would they  _survive_  without magic? Their handicap had made it necessary to develop some intelligence, or perish. She had shared her deduction with Mike, in a soft voice, as she did not want to be seen making a mistake in judgement by the woman, clear head of the household, or Granger herself.

He had laughed warmly, and had explained that, just as it happened with wizards, not  _all_  muggles were smart. Some neighbour named Jones, apparently, was a good example of that. They had managed to develop all the useful devices because they were many, and diversified their jobs: each one of them specialized in one very little thing, and then they summed up all their knowledge. That was how the  _science_  worked. Pansy pictured it a bit like an ant colony.

So, she gathered, Mike took care of the  _science_ , and Granger's mother took care of the politics. Cooking required  _science_ , so now she understood why he had been in charge of that.

As they sat for dinner, Pansy had long forgotten her fear for what would end up on her plate. Granger's mother sat first, and Mike served the food –which smelled delicious– and continued with his previous explanation.

"And so a car and a bus actually work in the same way," he was saying. Pansy thought that it may only be the case for muggle cars and buses, because she had just taken the Knight Bus to the nearest stop to get there, and she had almost puked her dinner from three days before. Mike's car was soft and smooth, and it actually waited for other cars to pass by instead of sneaking in between them and squeezing its passengers.

"But not with  _illictricity,_ " she remembered. He nodded, and said, "Though some actually can, nowadays."

Pansy nodded, confused. It was like they had  _different types_  of magic. Veritably puzzling.

At the other side of the table, Granger and Sarah were having a heavy discussion on creature rights that she herself would have had trouble following.

"Well, mum," Granger said indignantly, "It's not like I can consult the Statutes of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures anytime I want. They are actually kept in the Ministry Archives, and you won't believe it, but the only existing copy is the original. Written in  _West Saxon_."

Sarah looked horrified at that, which Pansy could not quite understand. "Where else would they be?" she asked.

"Oh, I don't know. Somewhere people could actually  _access_  them?" Granger answered, sarcasm dripping in her voice. Her own mother shushed her, "Don't be rude, Hermione. It's not like wizards have Internet."

" _Internet_?" she asked, yet again encountering another unknown word. She was starting to develop a headache.

"Oh, Pansy," Mike laughed, "You have yet to see the greatest invention of humanity."

* * *

Hermione led Parkinson to her room, eager to get her away from her parents. She could not say what was worse, the initial tenseness in their interactions, or the way they had ended up taking to each other. Parkinson was actually being  _nice_  to them. And while she looked half scared of all objects within the house, she also seemed somewhat interested. She had to admit that was the most bizarre plot twist she had ever experienced.

"But  _everything_  is there?" she insisted, now that they were out of earshot. "Absolutely everything?"

Hermione actually laughed at that. "Yes, Pansy," she answered patiently. "If I wanted to know the temperature in Bahamas on the day I was born, I would find in in a matter of seconds. I just need to write the question in Yahoo. Do you remember Yahoo?"

She nodded, eyes wide. "The purple letters. Mike asked them if it would rain tomorrow."

Hermione had planned to drag Parkinson straight to her room at her arrival, barely greeting her parents, and get to work. However, she had arrived two hours earlier than planned. It would have been unthinkable for her parents not to invite her to dinner, and so she had found herself in a very compromising situation. Its consequences had been most unexpected.

"How can you tell it will rain without seers?" she asked, genuine curiosity evident in her tone. She had not sneered even once in the past hour.

"Modelling the atmosphere," she explained. "We take values of many different parameters: pressure, temperature, humidity… For many years. And we also note the weather that results from them. Then, we try to predict what weather we can expect, given the current values of the parameters," she tried to simplify. "It's a bit more complex than that, and it involves computers and physics."

"Ah," Pansy said in understanding, " _computers_ ," she said in a tone that was almost reverential. She had understood that everything complex muggles solved thanks to "thinking machines", or computers.

"You can find any sort of information you want, actually," she said, and realizing Parkinson would most likely be interested, added, "You can even browse clothes on the Internet, pay for them, and someone brings them to your door."

"Even if you are  _poor_?" she gasped in surprise.

Hermione sighed, "Yes, even if you're poor."

She swung her wand and the door closed right behind them. The books they needed were piled up on her nightstand in precarious equilibrium, and other than that her room was  _very_  muggle. It had to be, in case family visited. Pansy was staring at a pair of jeans with obvious disdain, "Are these things actually comfortable? You're always wearing them."

"Well, you don't have to worry a bit of wind will show everyone your knickers," she answered.

"Why would it?" Parkinson asked, and snorted. "Charm your skirts not to flail around."

Hermione blushed slightly and inwardly admitted she had a point. It was hard to get past preconceived thoughts, even after more than five years in the wizarding world.

Parkinson took a pillow and sat on the floor, while Hermione moved away the carpet. Bloodstains were a pain to remove, even with magic. "Here," said Pansy, and handed her the most ridiculously ornate knife she had ever seen. It was a miracle there was even a bit of blade left to cut on the baroque thing.

She must have been paying attention to her expression, because she added, "It  _does_  matter, Granger," the familiar condescending sneer back on her face. "Magic  _is_  about intention. We only learn about wand-waving at school, but there is much more to it. Trust me on this one."

She frowned. It was true that Parkinson was most likely to know about ritualistic, old magics than her. Maybe she should listen, for once. And later try to find some bibliographic evidence, of course.

Parkinson took out a bunch of candles from her fancy bag and settled them on a perfect circle all around them. Hermione switched off the fluorescent lights, guessing they did not go with the ambience she was trying for.

They sat facing each other and, for the first time ever, performed the ritual in a friendly atmosphere. Hermione thought Pansy might have been right about the whole  _intention_  theory, because she could feel her blood already buzzing in her veins in anticipation. Her whole body knew it was about to happen, and it was calling for it. Judging by the eager brightness of Parkinson's eyes, she was not the only one.

She gave Pansy her hand and she seemed surprised only for a second, before taking it and cutting much more delicately than she ever had. She licked the blood that was dripping down her palm, and already they could feel their magic starting to swirl, as if waking up from a long slumber. It called for the other, it drew them together, pushed them to go on. This time, Hermione thought, the wound on her hand barely hurt.

She cut Pansy slowly, even though she was trembling in anticipation, barely able to hold back. Once her blood flowed free she went for it with hunger.

_It was back._

It was back, back, back and it was  _better_.

She laughed, joyous, eyes unfocused as the pleasure tingled all her nerves and completely took over her. She licked and licked for more until Pansy's wound started healings and then she kissed her palm, thanking her hands for the wonderful gift they provided. She felt it all over again.  _Fire_ , fire within her veins. She was burning inside, and yet the fire would not –could not– hurt her. She welcomed Pansy's magic within her and it felt wonderful; like a lover's caress that stroked your very soul.

She cried out, feeling so much stronger, so much closer to Pansy, so much more at  _home_. This, this was where she belonged. This was how she should be feeling all the time. The two of them together, souls embracing, standing as one. Having only her own magic within felt  _wrong_ , it felt  _empty_.

"I needed this," Pansy whispered roughly, and Hermione nodded that yes, she had needed it too. Finally, finally together once more.

As their cuts healed completely and their magic buzzed and seeped out of their pores, twirling all around them, they locked eyes. They wondered, at the same time, how to continue. They were holding hands, and their magic flowed together from one to the other and it was  _great_. But there was more to it. There was a way to carry on, a way to  _continue_ , they knew it. They could feel it with their whole being, and yet they did not know how to proceed. They could kiss again, embrace each other, even become a tangled mess of limbs, but it was not that. It would not bring them as close as they wished,  _yearned_  to be.

They clung onto each other fiercely wondering how, just  _how_  to go on. She had Pansy in her arms, and she had Pansy in her veins, but how could she have Pansy in her  _soul_? They were so close their noses touched and they gazed into each other's eyes, desperately wondering how to merge into a single being. They could not find out.

It was something else that they were failing to do, that could let them become one as they wished. They were so close, and yet… something was missing.

* * *

They laid down, hours later, hands and arms and legs intertwined, as close as they could physically get. They supposed it would suffice, for the moment.

Granger broke the peaceful moment, which for all she knew must have lasted hours, as she asked, "Do you think this is affecting us?" in a soft whisper.

Pansy thought about it. Right now, she wanted nothing more than staying there, the two of them together, forever. That was certainly a non-predicted consequence. But she could tell Granger's question went in a different direction. "In which way?"

"The Occlumency books, they all tell you how to control your emotions but I–I find it hard, lately, to do so," she said, caressing down her arm, sending ripples of magic through her. "And I read that the Dark Arts are supposed to unbalance you, make you irascible, more prone to outbursts."

Pansy had heard that, too. Had she been acting unbalanced? She thought that, maybe, her last conversation with Theo would have gone differently in other circumstances. Maybe she had been acting with a too obvious defiance within her own house. She guessed it would have been better to play it safe. Such recklessness was unlike her. Maybe it was an after-effect of the magic.

"I think I am," Granger kept on, "irascible. More than before. I find myself thinking things, saying things, that are unlike me. I  _yelled_  at McGonagall," she confessed in a horrified whisper.

Pansy laughed. "Bitch needs some more yelling, I think." Granger hit her softly on her arm at that. "It's supposed to be a side-effect," she admitted, "of Dark Magic."

"I got into the Room of Requirements just to  _destroy_  things," she kept on. Apparently, it was Dear Diary day.

"Sounds like a sensible use of that room," she said, making a mental note to take that over as a hobby. Blowing things up was just fun, and a young lady had many frustrations in the modern days. "In my opinion, Granger, you could use a bit of spicing up. You let the Golden Morons walk all over you. Snap more often, it's a good thing."

She heard Granger huff in frustration. "I just don't like the feeling that it's  _controlling_  me," she said.

Well, that  _was_  kind of creepy. But what to do about it? "It's a small price to pay," she said, "for such a great reward. Don't you think?"

"I just wonder if it's the only one."

* * *

They ate breakfast –burnt egg on burnt toast, the only thing she had managed to cook, and then some fruit– with the vicious hunger that overtook them every time. They had gone down before her parents had awoken, driven by the need to eat, but also not wanting to be seen in such a state of desperation. Parkinson had actually said she refused to look like a  _Weasley_  in front of her mother.

She could not understand how it had even happened, but the pureblood snob had actually developed some sort of  _respect_  for her parents. She thought she might have been told, in her childhood, so many completely awful things about muggles that the truth just looked unexpectedly nice in comparison.

"Let's start quickly," Pansy said, munching her third serving of eggs, "I need to be home before the afternoon tea with Grandmama."

They had hours before that, she supposed, but the spells were demanding enough they might need the time. Drawing the runes would be especially time-consuming.

The day went by with them spelling every inch of the house, chanting loudly as her parents went around and threw them curious, half-amused glances. They started inside, secured walls, windows and doors, and then went out to the garden. By that point, they had devoured her father's roast voraciously, much to his delight, and were starting to get tired.

"Are you sure about this bit? Seems quite unorthodox to me" Pansy asked, almost in a mood. She supposed her arms were starting to hurt, too.

"Garcia suggested it," Hermione said, biting onto her quill. "She's good at mixing spells, has a, well, an  _unorthodox_  understanding about the arithmancy behind them. This should make the wards mingle with their surroundings, not stand out in the middle of a muggle neighbourhood," she had gotten the idea from her conversation with McGonagall, some time ago. Not that she would ever admit to it. Garcia had managed to modify the outer layer of the wards in a way that, she thought, might work.

Mike chose that moment to interrupt, opening the window that gave to the front garden, warm cups in hand, "You girls need some tea to help you through your difficult bit of magic?" he offered.

Pansy accepted the cups gracefully, and she was again amused at how perfectly nice she became when dealing with her parents. " _Fake little shit,"_  she thought almost with affection.

"Do they even realize," she asked in a hush, once her father had closed the window, "that they're in  _mortal_  danger?"

Hermione made a face that was answer enough. Parkinson nodded, thoughtful, and kept writing runes as accurately as she could manage.

After the events of the previous night, they felt more at ease with each other. In fact, Hermione thought she felt completely at peace only when Pansy was close enough. Any other moment, her magic stirred and searched for her, whirring in agitation.

Separating after the day's work was almost unbearable. They said nothing about it, but they lingered at the front door longer than necessary. It was still a day to Christmas and the start of the semester felt too far away.

* * *

Theodore excused himself to retire to his chambers. As the heavy oak doors of his father's office closed behind him, he reached for his tie and loosened the knot. It still did not help him breath. He knew he was white as chalk and only hoped he could reach his bedroom without throwing up.

The elves had set up sparkly decorations on every corner of the dark monument that was his house, and even on the very Christmas day they felt grim and cheerless.

He understood now. The meaning of Pansy's words, why she had gone mad; how the sides had  _changed_ , at least for her. He might even understand if she decided to side with Dumbledore and his mudbloods. That was, if they were willing to take her in.

Opposing the Dark Lord was a foolish endeavour, but his friend was done for anyway. Doomed, even worse than the rest of them.

He had tried to help. He had hinted, and then suggested and finally outright begged his father –on his knees– to let  _him_  marry her. He felt foolish now, remembering how he had dismissed Pansy as too shrilly, too bossy, not pretty enough. The light tint of red on his otherwise deadly pale visage was due to  _embarrassment_ , at having been so very shallow.

It had not worked. His father had sentenced her  _not enough_  for the House of Nott. The Parkinsons were not  _loyal_  enough to the cause, and not rich enough to buy acceptance. A second son would suffice for their daughter, and she better be grateful for it.

He knew better than to insist. His father was unmovable.

He reached the safety of his room and left himself fall to the floor, lamenting Pansy's fate. For the first time since his mother had died, he let himself cry to sleep. The war, always looming in the distance, felt real to him for the first time.

* * *

Harry laid on his bed in the Burrow, staring at the new flying gloves Hermione had sent as a Christmas gift two days ago. He didn't understand. If Dumbledore was right, why had she sent them?

Of all the crazy things to believe, after the renewed confirmation that Snape was  _good_ , now came the shocking revelation that Hermione was  _bad_. He just couldn't wrap his head around it.

Dumbledore was certain. So very certain.  _As much as about Snape_ , a little voice in his mind pointed out. Could he be wrong about both? He'd  _seen_  the bastard offer to help Malfoy. He bet no one could say the same about his best friend.

Still, as always, Dumbledore had made a good point. Hermione had been angry and irritable the last few days before Christmas vacation. Snappish, prone to answer with sharp and scathing remarks. He had even heard her  _swearing_ , which was a first. He had thought her bad moods were because of Ron and Lavender, but if so they were coming a bit late. And the Dark Arts were known to influence people in exactly such ways.

When he thought about it, Hermione had not spoken to Ron even once, and Harry himself had been busy spending time with both parties while also meeting Dumbledore and paying attention to Malfoy. Could Pansy Parkinson have gotten to her, taking advantage of her recent solitude? He remembered seeing Hermione with two Hufflepuff girls he did not know, so it was not like she had been left completely  _alone_. Why would she feel the need to befriend the Slytherin bitch?

Dumbledore had told him he would not expel any of the two –Hermione and Parkinson– even when they had been involved in Dark Magic within Hogwarts' boundaries. He had said it was better to observe their actions up close. Better not to rush them to Voldemort's side even faster. He had told him he could speak to her if he so wished, but sternly advised against disclosing the secrets of their conversations. Well, he  _would_  speak to her. He would ask her in person what was going on, because there was no way he would believe she had turned unless she told him herself.

He played with the seams of his new gloves as he remembered how Remus had advised him not to use them. He had  _yelled_  at him for that. Said mean things about how he had not trusted Sirius when it mattered, when Dumbledore had been  _wrong_. Remus had been hurt by them. He was not proud of his outburst.

He knew what that meant, though. The adults in The Burrow were  _discussing_  Hermione. Speaking about her in hushed tones that betrayed both horrified surprise and pity. He hated the way they spoke about her. As if she were some  _criminal_. As if she were Malfoy himself. In his opinion, they should be speaking about the blond prat instead.  _He_  was the real Death Eater.

He could not tell what was worse, their worries or Ron's. He did not know yet, and he spoke only about Slughorn's party and whether Hermione had truly attended alone or not. Harry still thought about how to break the news to him.

He had told Scrimgeour he was Dumbledore's man through and through, but right now he was just a bloody mess. And the only person who had ever helped him see clearer within misty thoughts was Hermione.

* * *

The hot, hot tears felt scalding rolling down her cheeks as she sobbed and fought to grasp for air. She could hear the loud thump, thump, thumping of blood rushing past her ears but no other sound came through. No matter how deeply she inhaled, she still had not enough air. She felt she needed to grab something –anything– with her hands, to hold onto, but as she clutched one thing, her hands shook and she felt the need to clutch another.

Her vision was getting blurry, though whether that was brought by the lack of air or the damned tears, she could not tell. She felt hot, around her chest. She needed air. She tore her scarf and pulled at her robe until the front ripped and yet it was not enough. She could not stand, legs and arms shaking as she kneeled, feeling powerless.

She was seeing stars now, colours mixing and sparkling within a narrower and narrower kaleidoscope. Her heart was beating faster than ever before, and she clutched her chest, thinking it could not be good, could not be healthy. Something was wrong with her.

She took a deep breath, but it felt shallow, and as she sobbed she let out a strangled cry for help that nobody heard. Nobody was there to care.

She needed to  _get out_. Get out from that hellish place in which nobody cared. There was no other thought in her confused mind but that  _need_.

But go where?

She felt herself convulsing, sobs raking her whole body. Her mother could not help even if she wished to. Theodore would not do, not against that. Millie and Draco might be the worst choice of all.

_Get out_. The scream was confined within her mind, as she could not articulate words. Her magic buzzed at the thought. She could feel a  _pull_ , at the edge of her senses; a presence, hiding just beyond the corner of her eye. If she closed her eyes, that small light was all she could see; a guide, much like a lone  _lumos_  in the darkness. She knew, purely through intuition, to let herself fall into that tugging sensation. An unfamiliar twist followed and her stomach churned as the floor vanished and reshaped under her hands and knees.

She opened her eyes once more, disoriented. The floor was now softer and warmer than the cold, stone room in which she had collapsed, back at the manor. Her tears would not let her see and she felt so dizzy and breathless she might not recognize the place anyway, but a warm hand settled on her arm and the worry in that voice was unmistakable.

"Pansy? Pansy, what's wrong?"

Pansy could not speak. She could barely breath. She could only cry. And so she held onto Hermione and buried her head on her hair and just sobbed uncontrollably.

* * *

She sat sniffling on Granger's bed, propped on some pillows, having finally calmed down enough for the muggleborn to force a mug of hot chocolate into her hands. Apparently, it could fix anything.

Granger sat next to her, having left her alone for barely a minute to procure them the hot beverages, and went back to patting her back in a reassuring manner.

"Want to talk about it?" she asked awkwardly. Pansy snorted at her poor attempt at dealing with the situation.

She forced herself to take a sip and found it less sweet and more bitter than she had assumed. Good. She felt she needed bitter in order not to throw up.

"Congratulate me, Granger," she said in a tone even more sour, so harshly the other girl flinched. "I'm engaged."

The silence was deep and prolonged, and she thought Granger might not even be breathing. "Whom to?" she finally whispered in a dread. How humorous, Pansy thought, that only Granger would fear for her. Who would have ever guessed?

"Lestrange."

Granger did not gasp in horror as she had thought, nor mumble quick  _sorrys_  and empty nothings. She just jumped on her and hugged her  _fiercely_ , forcing Pansy to cover her chocolate mug in a hurry, lest it spill. She felt her eyes water once more, against her will. Her lower lip trembled and she gripped Granger's arm and basked in her warmth. Their magic slowly intertwined and she felt better.

"Yes, yes, I know you're devastated," she drawled, trying to force her voice through the knot in her throat, "but our love was always impossible, Granger."

Granger actually hit her arm at that, making her yelp, and then just held her even tighter, until she was sobbing out of control once more.

"Can they  _force_  you?" Granger asked once she had gathered herself enough. "You're not underage anymore."

"You think I'm gonna be standing in front of that man and say  _no_?" she snapped, but Granger was not offended at her tone. She was angry on her behalf.

"Then don't stand in front of the man!" she exclaimed, all righteous conviction. "He's still in Azkaban, isn't he?" Pansy nodded. They ignored how the  _still_  meant they both believed he would be set free once more. "And you're in Hogwarts. They can't pull you out in the middle of the year to marry you off!"

"Yes, they could," she corrected. It had been done before. Granger looked horrified, which made her chuckle. "As soon as he's out, I'm guessing." The man would surely be  _eager_.

"Then don't go," Granger asked her, taking her hand. They locked eyes. She was dead serious. "When they tell you to, don't go. You're seventeen. You stay at Hogwarts no matter what, and then in the summer you can come here."

Pansy felt tears once more welling up in her eyes, and bit her lip to force herself to remain serene. She felt like a child, she was crying so much. She was torn between feeling grateful and feeling  _vexed_  at having to accept her hospitality. She, a pureblood witch, accepting charity from muggles. Oh, how wars changed the world.

Still, better muggles than the Lestranges.

She nodded, and Granger jumped on her once more, making her huff impatiently. "Enough feely feels, Granger. They'll  _catch_ ," she sneered. Granger giggled –actually giggled! She was getting out of practice at being nasty, how preposterous!– and held on.

"You can stay until the end of Christmas break, if you want to," Granger offered. "No need to go back  _there_."

Pansy's eyes itched but she held back. She could not help herself and smiled softly. "You'll regret this," she warned.

Hermione laughed out loud. "I'm absolutely sure I will, you insufferable woman."

* * *

Hermione woke up the next morning to a huge pile of fancy suitcases and trunks stacked up in precarious equilibrium in the middle of her room. Pansy was awake a few feet away from her, on the extra bed they kept for guests. "The shrinking charm must have worn off," she commented as she painted her nails a soft peach colour.

"You brought your luggage with you?" she asked, still groggy from sleep.

"Of course not," the girl rolled her eyes, "mother sent it half an hour ago."

There was an open letter on her covers, and Pansy's eyes were red, which meant she might have cried again in the morning.

"Did they kick you out?" she whispered, wondering if she should be fetching more chocolate.

Pansy scoffed, "They wouldn't send a thing if they had," she pointed out. "Mother just noticed I hadn't taken anything with me when I left. She wishes for me to dress properly while I impose on my friends."

"She knows where you are?" Hermione was confused now.

"She knows I'm not there," she shrugged. But at Hermione's insisting stare, she added, "She must be guessing it's better if she doesn't know. Just in case." She raised her newly manicured hand and blew softly, willing the nails to dry.

Hermione nodded, slowly grasping the situation now. "Your mother wants to help you," she tried to clarify, "and your father's the one who…?"

"Sold me off? Well, yes. Pretty much." Hermione grimaced at her answer. Pansy saw her through the corner of her eye and raised her head, "Daddy's never been the most reliable of men."

Hermione frowned at the sheer amount of luggage the woman had sent her daughter. Between her parents and herself they did not own half as much as Pansy must have piled up in there. She wondered if it was only for the ten days until they left for Hogwarts again, or everything the girl owned. She preferred not to ask.

"There's quite a few books, too," Pansy informed her. Hermione went around the pile to check the other side. At least twenty old tomes were firmly tied in strong bands. "These look obscure," she told her with a frown.

"I asked her about blood magic not too long ago," Pansy had finished with her nails and stood to join her, pulling the first one free. "She must have guessed I would need these?"

As she flipped open the tome –written in suspiciously red ink– Hermione was suddenly reminded of her own blood magic book, buried in the depths of her trunk. "Oh," she gasped, realizing it might be smart to bring it to Pansy's attention. She might have some insight into it.

Pansy, having heard her, narrowed her eyes and stared with suspicion. "What?" she asked at seeing her shift awkwardly.

Hermione fetched the book and handed it to her with an apologetic look. The same faded, golden letters read "The Coven", and yet it somehow felt much more ominous. Pansy's breath caught and she opened it with a care untypical of her.

She read the first few sentences and asked, "Where did you find this?" a certain awe tinting her voice.

"Hogwarts Library, some time ago."

"Some time ago?" Pansy sounded accusatory, and Hermione grimaced. She fumbled for an excuse, but her guest kept going. "And you kept it from me? When you must have  _known_  this is what our ritual is all about?"

Hermione felt herself go red, but before she could defend herself Pansy chuckled, looking almost proud. Hermione faltered, confused. "Keeping such a thing a secret for such a long time… It's the  _key_  to our little situation. Circe, I didn't think you had it in you."

Was she  _praising_  her? Pansy could be the weirdest person, sometimes. "You're not mad?"

"Mad? Well, I'm fucking annoyed it took you so long. We could have been making  _progress_ ," she emphasized, "But it's not like  _I_ would have shared either," she shrugged.

Hermione frowned, now annoyed herself. No, Pansy would not have shared either. They were not exactly friends, after all. Well, at least not before. Now… Well, now they were so much more than just friends.

"A  _Coven_ ," she said almost reverently. "Witches joined together in small groups, tied strongly through old magic. The old tales always speak of sacrifice and obscure rituals that no person alive knows anymore." She almost giggled, giddy. "Oh, it makes so much sense!"

"So you've heard of them," Hermione confirmed. "In legends, in old tales. Ever heard of a real one?" she asked, now getting excited herself. Pansy might know more about the topic.

Pansy rolled her eyes at the question. " _We_  are a real one, Granger."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all comments and kudos! I truly appreciate your opinions. Things will be happening soon, in this first part of the story. As you see, some big changes are taking place! I'm excited :) What do you think? And also, anyone wants to see Pansy face a specific "device" in the muggle world? I'm running out of ideas haha
> 
> Thanks to Gremlin Jack and silverlovedragoness for betaing!


	12. Clash

**Coven. Ch. 12: Clash (+drabbles)**

Pansy was very surprised to learn that muggle Christmas traditions were incredibly similar to wizarding ones. She had been expecting  _bizarre_  occurrences in the Granger household –funny devices and unexplainable customs– but there were only leftover crackers and pudding and turkey. Much like in her very own home. The difference might be that Mike had cooked enough to have them eating the same dish all the way until the new year. As it was, now three days after Christmas, the Granger women were already quite tired of it.

Hermione must have spoken to her parents about her  _situation_ , because they did not ask a single question about family. Or about why she was there. The conversation mostly revolved around presents, which had been deemed a safe topic. Pansy was busy trying to get Mike to understand why a young, respectable witch needed as many as ten different dressing robes every season, when the mail arrived.

The old owl carried the Prophet, and Pansy rushed to take it, ignoring the bird when it demanded payment. Hermione took care of it as she quickly scanned the first page, searching for any mention of Azkaban. That would become a daily habit for her, from then on. She could breathe again only after seeing none.

A group of unhappy owls appeared next, carrying a heavy package that looked very much like a stack of books. Hermione freed them and fed them, as she announced, "It's from Garcia."

Sarah gave her a questioning look but she only knew her as someone who suggested unorthodox spells. "She's lending me some warding books she found in Barcelona that might be useful."

"More warding, Hermione?" her mother was frowning. "You and Pansy went over every inch of the house."

"Is your house just as protected, Pansy?" Mike asked, forgetting about the  _taboo_. Sarah glared and kicked him under the table for his lack of consideration.

"Much more," she answered. "There're ancient wards in place, renewed by every generation of Parkinsons. The older the better, since more wizards have placed their will to protect behind them." Mike and Sarah seemed worried at that, but she believed they ought to be even  _more_  worried. "It's important," she emphasized.

"You girls are working way too hard!" Sarah exclaimed, suddenly. Perhaps she wished to break the sudden tension they had created. "You must take a break. You study all year long and then during Christmas you are only reading more," she shook her head. "Pansy, why don't you help Hermione choose a nice, new dress? We can all go out for dinner on New Year's Eve, find a nice place. You can wear one of your nice new robes, Pansy."

Hermione huffed. "Mum! I  _have_  a dress!"

"Maybe you girls can find a middle ground between one single dress and ten new ones every season?" Mike suggested, taking the Prophet.

* * *

"No, of course you can't wear one of your fancy cloaks for a walk around the block!"

Given her mother's New Year's Eve intentions Hermione had thought it prudent to ease Pansy into the muggle world step by step. A walk to the nearby park and back seemed like the wisest choice… But even this was proving to be difficult.

"Why not? What do you muggles have against superior quality?" she asked in a pout, holding the puffer jacket between two fingers as if it had personally offended her. "What is this  _plaskik_  thing even made of, anyway?"

"It's warm, and practical, and you won't look like you came out of a period movie," Hermione insisted, losing her patience.

"No, I'll look like a  _flobberworm_! Granger, this is a  _crime_  against fashion!" she exclaimed, bringing the back of her hand to her forehead, as she dropped it on the floor.

Hermione took a deep, calming breath and reminded herself that she was the one who had offered Pansy asylum in the first place. "Wear whatever you want," she gave up, "but don't complain when people look at you funny!"

Pansy smirked, pleased, "When have you ever known me to complain?"

* * *

Pansy's second incursion into the muggle word happened at the local supermarket. She was intrigued by the variety of food displays, as well as the different products; and seemed to particularly like the colourful fruit section.

"Granger, look, they sell  _plaskik_  packages of milk! Oh, Circe, they sell  _orange_  juice! Who did ever think of squeezing an  _orange_ , of all things?"

"It's way juicier than a pumpkin, Pansy," she answered almost automatically as she considered whether they needed more potatoes or not. Maybe she should buy more, but a different kind? Her father liked being able to choose between types of stuff.

Pansy ventured exploring around, and came back with a confused look. "Granger, why do they have a whole section of ' _female hygiene'_  over there? And why's it filled with  _plaskik_  things within  _plaskik_  wrapping?"

_Oh_ , Hermione thought.  _This is going to be… Well, this is going to be_ fun.

She started with pads, which she thought may be easier. As she went through basic usage, type and disposal, Pansy's disgusted expression morphed into one of pure horror. "So… You wear  _that thing_  all day, your own old blood, against – against your…?"

"Well, it's very absorbent, and it's hygienic. Unless you wear it for more than eight hours, it shouldn't –"

" _Eight hours_?" She exclaimed, making more than one costumer turn toward them. Hermione laughed. For someone who had attacked another person to drink their blood, she was unexpectedly apprehensive.

Tampons were, as expected, even more appalling. "You – You put a – a –?" Hermione nodded. "Inside – Inside your –?" Nodded again. "And have you…?" she asked, pointing at the offensive things from a safe distance.

Yet again, Hermione nodded, smiling. "During the summer periods. Can't use magic outside of Hogwarts, you see."

Pansy paled and asked in a very soft, concerned whisper, "Your  _maidenhood_  was taken by a piece of  _plaskik_?"

Hermione had not laughed so hard in her whole life.

* * *

"So… A teeth healer?" she tried to summarize into a simple concept.

"Well, yes." Mike smiled. She had to admit he had nice teeth, indeed.

"But you only heal teeth," she repeated. "Nothing else." She felt that was an important part of the concept.

"No, nothing else. We're specialized in teeth. Only teeth," Mike took a sip of tea and handed her another sugar-free cookie. Muggles, she thought, had the weirdest ideas on how to make 'sweets'.

Pansy had gone as far as the park, and even visited the marketplace, and had seen slightly different neighbourhoods. She had an eye good enough to tell the Granger's lived in a good part of town, and in a fairly large house. Also, they owned a private clinic, and that spelled good money.  _Upstarts_ , of course, and not nearly as affluent as most purebloods; but it was something. Her conclusion was that tooth healing was a decent profession.

"And if we can't heal a tooth then, well, we pull it out," he went on calmly, taking another bite.

Pansy stopped herself right before biting on her cookie. " _Pull it out_?"

He nodded, and went to fetch a bizarre, metallic instrument that resembled nothing she had ever seen. Her face went white again as he demonstrated what he meant, exactly, by  _pull out_.

* * *

"So, you climb mountains, just for the  _climb_?" she asked, confused.

Sarah nodded with a smile and infinite patience brought only by having reassured thousands of scared-to-death patients.

"It's for exercising," she explained. The poor girl had such a very different conception of the world, compared to them; of course she was confused. Still, she was curious instead of proudly ignorant, like that Ronald who had made her little girl cry. Not that the last bit had anything to do with her dislike of the boy, of course. Nothing at all. "And to enjoy the views along the way."

"Are there not any  _devices_  that can climb for you?" Sarah supposed than since Mike had explained planes to Pansy, the girl assumed there were 'travelling devices' for everything.

"Well, in some mountains –not the high ones, of course–, you can take a ride to the top. But that kind of defeats the purpose, don't you think?"

Pansy looked dubious. Sarah sighed, and called. "Mike!"

Her husband had a gift for making the girl understand, and she did not share it.

* * *

Sarah Granger had decided Pansy would help her daughter get a dress, and the world would burn before she changed her mind. As a result, Hermione had been going through all things that might startle her in public, to have her well prepared.

"Escra-whats?" she asked, still wary of her surroundings and unusually pressed against Granger. She wished they could get to the clothes part of the morning; that was her field of expertise after all. She had already seen in the  _Yahoo_  that party dresses could look pretty much the same in both worlds.

"Escalators," she repeated, guiding her in the right direction, both of them trailing behind her mother. "Moving staircases," she explained.

Pansy threw her a confused side-ways glance. "We have those at Hogwarts. What's there to be alarmed about?" She was still cautious, though. She had learned the muggle world could be surprising.

Hermione laughed. "Oh no, they're not the same," she said, and pointed to the nearer ones, now coming onto sight.

Pansy's gaze went up and up and up, following the people that stood still and yet moved. They approached, fast paced, and her confusion grew. What was that contraption? Stairs were materializing underneath people's feet, and then went upwards. It was the exact  _opposite_  of Hogwarts. The direction was fixed and the steps moved you up. It was… It was way fucking more practical!

Still, how could illictricity make steps appear out of nowhere? Mike had said that was not possible, she thought.

"Make sure your silly cloak doesn't snag in the grate," Granger said as she pushed her onto the moving plate she had been hesitating in front of. She yelped, trying to stand only on one step and holding her beautiful, mooncalf-wool cloak, wary of the dividing, serrated lines. What did she mean, it could snag? How unsafe!

The ground underneath her  _moved_ , carrying her along, which was the weirdest feeling. It grew under her feet. It lifted her up. It was  _magical_.

No, she reminded herself. It was  _scientifical!_

Wait, why did they not just put those on mountains?

* * *

"What's wrong with this one?" Granger asked, defensive yet again. "It's nice!"

Pansy sighed. "Sure," she told her, exasperated, "If you're  _twelve_." Circe, the  _frills_!

"Fine, you pick one then, damn it!" she yelled at her. "One that doesn't 'make my breasts sag' and with a colour that doesn't 'make me look like a stuffed piglet'!"

Pansy sighed. Hermione's fashion sense was  _deplorable_. Having only Pottsy and Weasels for friends possibly had something to do with it. She needed a girl in her life, and one with a better sense of colour-matching than the Weaselette. "For the last time, your breast size just means you need to go for something tighter! You look dumpy otherwise. And strawberry pink? Really? With your skin tone?" she shook her head.

Pansy went out of the changing room to fetch one herself. Granger needed  _daring_ , a gown that showed she was already a  _woman_. Sure, the blue dress at the Yule ball –and next to Victor Krum, no less– had been cute; but she was no fifteen-year-old anymore. She picked a deep burgundy dress, with an uneven long skirt that fell in wide waves and a tighter, strapless sweetheart top. Bold, but she wanted to see if Hermione could pull off that neckline. She also selected a more vaporous one, in deep green, tight at the waist and more modest around the chest area.

She went on, appreciating the variety. All prêt-à-porter, sadly, but with a few magical twitches she thought she could get them to fit like a glove. And those shades? She took the sparkly, dark-navy one, and the mauve with a mermaid skirt –such pretty lace– and the strapless one in bold mustard colour. As she held dress over dress on her arm she thought that, well, if some did not suit Granger, maybe she could just try them on herself?

* * *

Pansy let herself fall to the ground, exhausted. She had learned a lot about Hermione during her stay; she was smart, a know-it-all in fact, unexpectedly lazy when it came to mending the garden, obsessively organized and  _fucking paranoid_.

They had been duelling in the back garden –carefully warded and hidden from neighbours– because apparently there was no time to lose, war is upon us, Pansy! Well, she had a point, sure enough… But was there a need to practice until they dropped? Did anyone truly need to be able to cast a perfect  _protego_  three-hundred times in a row?

"Let's give it one last –" Hermione started, getting up from the ground a few feet away from her.

"Oh hell no, Granger! I'm dead. Deceased. Departed. Perished! Lifeless and inert and defunct and overall gone to a better place! Bury me right here," she begged, dropping her head against the grass.

"Here, in a  _muggle_  garden?" Hermione teased.

Pansy laughed, "Over there under Mr Jones' daffodils. I'll curse my blood and will them to never flourish." Mike had been right; the man was a right arse.

* * *

Pansy was delightfully tipsy. She had been surprised the wine was that good, and Sarah such a  _connoisseur_. She almost felt like she was at home. Except for the fact that she was surrounded by a bunch of unknown muggles –far enough that they did not bother her– and her father and mother were not around to insult each other over dinner.

"Happy New Year!" Mike wished them all, and they cheered.

The food was better than Mike's, which was already saying a lot, and though Pansy had no idea of the muggle-money-to-galleon conversion factor, she had seen that the menu had no listed prices. That was universal language for  _fucking expensive_. The place was fully booked, but not as noisy as she would have expected. It probably had to do with the restaurant's quality. And maybe also with Hermione's subtle sound-dimming charm, who knew. It was also spotless. Sarah had lectured her on how muggle sanitary requirements for any establishment serving food were way stricter than wizarding ones. The Hog's Head was way more likely to make her stomach sick, she had decided.

All in all, her first muggle restaurant had been a better experience than expected. Hermione had fussed way too much for no reason.

"Let's wish you girls a great school year!" Sarah exclaimed.

Pansy cheered again.  _Great_. She had a feeling they would do great things that year, yes. Maybe not good ones, but great indeed.

* * *

Pansy was reading The Book while Hermione quickly scanned the new tomes they had received both from friend and family. She was sorting them into three piles according to potential usefulness, to read with care later. She had to admit she was quite impressed by the Parkinson Library.

"This is just –," Pansy complained in frustration. "How awfully ambiguous!"

"So it's not only me who thinks so?" Hermione asked with interest.

Pansy huffed. "Old books usually are. They assume you know so many things that aren't common knowledge anymore… But this one, Circe, I would  _burn_  it. I'd like to know who the hell wrote it. I would find his grave just to  _spit_  on it."

"Did you reach any conclusions?" she still insisted. Even only one little clue would be better than nothing.

"Well, I can gather some things," she looked unconvinced as she said so, though. "For one, I think we have an open  _connection_ ," she started. "But I thought so before already, anyway. The way we felt a few days ago, remember? Like the ritual was  _incomplete_?" Hermione nodded, still all too aware of that feeling that wanted to push them to  _more_. "It is. There's something else. And I think this could point to the next step."

Hermione joined her on the bed at that, excited. Pansy had the book open at some point toward page number thirty. "Up to this point, it kind of describes a coven," she pinched the first fifteen or twenty pages and showed them to her, "albeit in unnecessarily poetic detail."

"Just goes around and around about the same thing," Hermione agreed. It was incredibly devoid of real content. "Covens are great. Lots of blood, lots of sisters, lots of power." She rolled her eyes.

Pansy nodded. "Now from here on, it speaks about sharing blood to strengthen the bond. ' _With the sharpness of the wielded blade the witch takes a share of the coven blood, which will flow through her and become, in turn, her own_.'"

Hermione frowned. "Yes, I guessed this one too. Though not until we'd done it for the first time." As she had stated once, worst instructions book ever.

Pansy nodded. "It happens. Most such books are meant as a  _reminder_  of what you should do, more than a beginners' guide. See, give me that one," she pointed at one of her mother's books and  _accioed_  it non-verbally. She spread it open and it spoke only of flowers.

"It's coded," Hermione realized, catching up. Pansy chuckled and seemed proud of her quickness. She blushed slightly at the implied praise.

"It's a headache, is what it is. But it uses words similarly. It's hard to use as an example, though, when it literally reads as  _growing roses from cuttings_."

Hermione read a few sentences, fascinated, and compared the words to Pansy's offered translation. The way some people protected their secrets was beyond amazing. She could see, once more, how unclear it was. Pansy could follow it only because her grandmother had taught her step by step.

She demanded her attention once more. "Now this is the new bit, I think. It talks about becoming joined, and I'd say we still aren't. ' _Witch and witch become unity through the bond. And the same shall be for witch and witch and witch._ '"

Hermione huffed. "What a roundabout way to say it can include more than two people."

"Now  _before_  this point, must be the explanation on how to create  _the_   _bond_." Pansy kept going, and pointed at a line two pages back. "' _Bound are the witches that have shared all_.' So, in order to become unity, we must create a bond. In order to create a bond, we must share more than one thing – and not only blood.  _All_."

Hermione nodded, following her reasoning. They laid down side by side, book open, and looked back to see any references on  _sharing_. It was a hard task, among such dense text, filled heavily with metaphors and strange wording. But if she was good at something, that was research. With a highlighting charm, she made the word "share" shine a bright yellow through the pages. It was, as they discovered, largely overused. Thanks to the charm, though, they would not miss one single instance.

Most cases where redundant repetitions of what they already knew, but Hermione was the first to find the new one. "Here!" she pointed out in a hurry, and read ahead of the word, "' _The agony of a common enemy_ '." As the words came out of her mouth, a feeling of dread settled on the base of her stomach. It sounded… unpleasant. In her previous readings, she had thought this bit part of a more general, meaningless description and not a specific instruction. Meaning, that witches in the coven simply had shared enemies, and wished them agony. Now, though, as they scrutinized the pages in search for a specific instruction, she saw she had been mistaken. "What does this mean? How are we supposed to share someone else's agony?" She kept her voice light, hoping against hope that her intuition was wrong.

"Well," Pansy said pointing somewhere a few lines below her finger, "by  _bathing in his blood as he dies_ , I'd say."

Hermione took the book from her hands and got it so close to her face she almost touched the ink with the tip of her nose. "You've got to be kidding me," she complained. That was another sentence she had assumed was an unnecessary description of how one could make people suffer –there were such passages in the book. Or maybe she had misread them all, who knew–. Now that Pansy had pointed it out, though, she could see the author was still speaking about the same topic, even if there were four long paragraphs in between.

She did not like that. She did not like it at all. The goddamned awful book could not be telling them to  _slaughter_  someone and  _bathe_  in their blood! What sort of barbaric monstrosity had they just run into? The mere thought of  _that_  was horrifying. She felt queasy as she read and reread the damned page time and time again.

As she grimaced, Pansy wrinkled her nose by her side. But while she found the idea revolting to the point of nausea, she was sure Pansy found it, at most, distasteful.

"Well," the girl said in sigh, "this is going to be one of those annoying moments in which your Gryffindor righteousness becomes an impediment, isn't it?"

* * *

Charity observed the small vial with a critical eye. Madam Pimpernelle was well known for selling overpriced items, and she just intended to memorize a few product names and then buy them from a larger distributor via Owl Order. She wondered if she truly needed a hair softening potion when she would most likely end up braiding her long mane. She never thought it flattering, when freed. She was much too short and stout, as her step-mother frequently reminded her. If she were brave as a Gryffindor, she would just cut it short and try to see if it was more flattering.

The bell rang and in came Professor Slughorn. She was surprised to see him in a Beautifying Potions shop, but as a potions master he might have some sort of deal with them. Maybe he even brewed them some.

The man glanced around the shop quickly, she said "Hi" and they engaged in polite small-talk. Was her cousin well, and had she enjoyed the party, and did Charity think she would appreciate a gift of dried dirigible plums? She smiled, and said well and yes and yes, and Slughorn did not ask one single question about  _her_.

She felt her mood deflate, even though Christmas was supposed to be all joy and cheer. She sighed, reminding herself that jealousy was a hideous thing to feel. It was not important. She was Charity and not Gwenog, and even if she could not fly to save her life, she had her good points too. She was hardworking, and friendly, and got along nicely with everyone. And if Professor Slughorn thought that was not a meritorious quality, that was because he was just an obsequious arse-licking hanger-on.

Still, the continuous comparison to her talented cousin –and did she know Gwenog had been an excellent student, too? Gifted in Charms– over the years eroded her self-confidence wave by wave. Unlike her, unlike so many others, Charity Jones was an absolutely  _average_  person. Her step-mother had once summarized it in a perfectly cruel expression: such a good kid, but sadly easy to overlook. That she had not even meant to hurt her just made it worse.

She left, not in the mood for window shopping anymore, and decided to treat herself to an ice-cream. Who cared if her step-mother thought her fat? She was just the Hufflepuff, friendly, what-was-her-name-again girl. Chubbiness even suited the image.

As she enjoyed the delicious mix of chocolate and mint flavours that Victoria would have yelled at her for eating –an aberrant combination, apparently, in her mind– she stopped in front of Flourish and Blotts. The books made her think of both Victoria and Hermione, and she wondered how the latter's Christmas was going. Maybe she was thinking about Weasley too much, since this year she was not going to spend the Holidays with them. She might be lonely. She should send her a letter and see how she was doing.

* * *

"What do you mean, the Moon?" Hermione must be pulling her leg again. Annoying, little –

"The Moon, Pansy. The same Moon you can see every night, that one. People. There," she insisted, focused on the  _Prophet_  over breakfast.

Pansy laughed. "Yes, of course. And people on the Sun too, why not?"

"Well, because they'd burn, that's why," she answered, still reading.

Pansy frowned. "Mike said planes can't fly that high," she pointed out. She was not wholly ignorant of their world anymore. Hermione could not trick her as if she were an uncultured  _Weasley_. She smirked to herself, satisfied.

"Not on a plane, they went on a spacecraft," she said, taking a sip of her now tepid tea. How she could allow her tea to go lukewarm, she would never understand.

Space-what again? She smelled bullshite. "The moon is too far," she insisted. "Wizards cannot go there. Never have."

"It's far," she conceded. "But muggles went there almost thirty years ago. Wizards are kind of late, don't you think?" she raised her head from the news to give her a smirk.

Pansy stood at once, eyes narrowed in distrust. "I'll ask Mike," she threatened. Mike would tell her the truth. Granger's smirk just went wider.

* * *

Pansy was slowly becoming accustomed to life in a muggle household. Even though the simplest daily occurrences left her baffled, Hermione realized with surprise that she had come to somehow appreciate some of her new findings.

After the planned New-Year's dinner they had enjoyed watching the  _End of Year Show_ , particularly the Spice Girl's  _Wannabe_  –goddamned catchy song. She remembered Pansy's question at their fashion style, " _Granger, why are they all naked only around their bellies?"_

Many other aspects of their life left her confused. Wizards had spells to brush their teeth, so the plastic toothbrushes looked foreign to her. Sunglasses were also an object she was befuddled by; glasses to see better, but to cover part of your sight? She was incredibly disgusted by the toilet brush –to the point of using the bathroom with apprehension– but fascinated with the cold "trapped" within fridge, as wizards simply used  _stasis_  charms to preserve food.

One afternoon, when her mother had grown tired of them spending their whole time locked in their room reading, they had been forced to come into the living and watch the telly. Ever the Disney enthusiast, she had bought the recently released Hunchback of Notre-Dame. Hermione thought it rather forward and mature; dark for a children-aimed movie. She liked how it explored taboo themes such as lust and genocide. Pansy was just left bemused at the mentions of magic in the movie –she still struggled with how magic was part of muggle legends and stories– but liked the song  _Hellfire_  so much that Hermione had heard her singing it with an ominous voice while in the shower. She found it so amusing she had bought Pansy the newest Disney Villains Song Compilation, so that she could listen as much as she wanted.

"Granger," she called, laying on her bed as usual. "Teach me again how to make it start," she demanded, obviously disconcerted by the music player.

Hermione rolled her eyes and moved on to help. If it were not because she could tell Pansy was making a real effort to learn –she seemed to truly hate being seen as uneducated– she would have snapped at her already.

As she sat next to her, she tried to ask nonchalantly, "Have you thought about what you'll do, back in school?" while she showed her again in which order she had to press the ' _runes'_  drawn on the player.

Hermione would most likely become estranged from Harry and Ron, maybe definitively, which she tried hard not to think about. Pansy could become as easily ostracized if she decided to go public with their  _relationship_. On the other hand, if she tried to hide it, it would hurt Hermione. She was spending Christmas there, and probably the summer, but she was her dirty, muggle secret.

Pansy frowned. "No," she grumbled. At Hermione's raised eyebrow, she sighed and went, "First I thought I could play along for some more time. If they're  _only_  suspicious, then who cares? It's not like they'll do much without confirmation." The music started playing. Pansy was fond of her Villain songs. "Or I could send them all to hell. But well, that could get nasty."

Hermione nodded, understanding that too. Keeping quiet could get Pansy some months of peace. "But you can only play along until he breaks out of jail," she pointed out. Pansy nodded, grim. "So, eventually, Slytherin becomes a dangerous place for you."

Pansy laughed without humour. "Greg and Vince are itching to get their hands onto  _someone_. And they've been watching me all year. It makes me think they might have known, about Lestrange. Or maybe there's just some list full of potential Death Eater child brides, who knows." Pansy shrugged, but it was obvious she was tense.

"Are they…?"

"Marked?" Pansy scoffed. "They  _wish_ , the poor dimwits. No, they aren't." She paused for a few careful seconds and then glanced at her. "Draco is, though."

Hermione gasped. That was  _very_  unexpected. "Malfoy is  _marked_  already? But he's a  _kid_. He's – he's  _underage_." Her heart was beating fast at the revelation. She had made fun of the idea with Ron. And all along, Harry had actually been right!

Pansy shrugged again. "Don't ask me how that works. My father isn't one."

"I can't believe there's a  _Death Eater_  in Hogwarts!" Well, two, counting Snape. "And you have to  _share_  a Common Room with him! Fuck, no wonder you want to play along." Screw her feelings about being Pansy's dirty secret. Hogwarts was a dangerous place. They needed to be more practical than sentimental.

Pansy sniggered at hearing her curse. It was unlike her. "I don't  _want_  to play along. I want to set them all on fire," she clarified. "Also,  _your friends_  know about this, you said. You think Potter's gonna let me play along?"

Hermione grimaced. No, Harry was likely to confront Pansy in the middle of a busy corridor at the first chance he got. Her  _betrayal_  would be exposed. "So you'll be alone down there."

"Aww," Pansy cooed mockingly. "Worried about me, sweet cheeks?"

Hermione glared at her, but did not deny it. The idea of Pansy facing all those snakes alone set her on edge. It was not safe. They would hurt her, curse her in her sleep. Her magic stirred and reached for the girl, searching reassurance.

"We could try to become truly bound," Pansy suggested as innocently as she could manage. "If that gets our magic enhanced permanently, then I'll be safe."

Hermione glared again, tensing. "We're not  _murdering_  someone!" she hissed. But she, too, felt the joy and buzz within her veins at the thought of  _completion_. She took a deep breath and fought the  _urge_  within her head.

Pansy shrugged again. "If I die in my sleep," she started off dramatically, "I want the sheets I've died on to be given to you. You know, to remind you of what you could have avoided."

* * *

Pansy waited as Hermione convinced her parents that it was unnecessary to join them on the platform. They would only waste their time to see the outside of a train, she had said. But Pansy knew she just wanted to avoid drawing unnecessary attention on the Grangers. It was a good move, in her opinion.

They had performed the ritual again two days ago, and then warded the Granger house so much the air in it felt thick with magic. Granger had managed to gather a few impressive spells from that  _Garcia_ 's books. Pansy had to admit she had even felt the wards settle in real time while chanting. It had been an enlightening experience. Placing the careful, advanced versions of a notice-me-not around the house had been a nightmare; but they were both fairly sure it was as hidden as could be.

The drawback of the experience was that they had both been left with a  _compulsion_  to complete the ritual that was very hard to bear.

It was a feeling much like hunger. You could not simply forget about it. You felt hungry, and then hungrier, and you knew it would not go away until you ate. It was like a sharp migraine, blinding you and not allowing for any other thoughts to occupy your mind. It was maddening.

It was Granger's fault.

She sighed, willing herself to calm down, to be patient. Granger must be feeling the same urge. She would eventually yield. She might nudge her to try to hurry her along, though.

They boarded the train quickly and without stalling. They had decided to come early on purpose. This way they could search for a compartment, lock the door, and avoid unnecessary attention. A scene in the station, with so many parents –potentially dangerous– on the platform, could be worse than within the walls of Hogwarts. Still, Pansy could not shake off the feeling all eyes were on her; observing, noticing, judging. Just thinking of how she would be received, within her own Common Room, when the news broke out had her on edge.

She did not regret her decision. She had power –renewed one day ago– instead of being fucking  _enslaved_  to Lestrange. She had actually dodged an  _avada_  there. However, her actions would still have consequences. She now had only Granger, and enemies.

"Ah! did I teach you  _Cave Inimicum_?" Granger suddenly asked, as they pushed their trunks into their chosen compartment.

Pansy rolled her eyes at her coddling. "Yes, you did. It alerts of approaching enemies," she dutifully recited. "And before you ask for the hundredth time, you also told me to strengthen all my shields with  _Fianto Duri_."

Granger nodded, still clearly worried, and followed her inside. Before they had even sat down, the door of their compartment was opened with a blasting sound that startled them both. Wand in hand and halfway raised, Pansy groaned at realizing it was  _Potter_.

"Hermione! I thought it was you! I saw –" he stopped abruptly as his eyes found Pansy's. His expression shaped from excited to grim and his smile turned into a pronounced scowl, before going on bitterly. "So it's  _true_." He sounded both disbelieving and accusatory. Pansy thought she had never seen eyes quite as expressive as his; the  _pain_  on them was palpable.

Hermione had gone so rigid Pansy feared she might break. She could feel her inner turmoil –a mix between angry, resentful, hurt, anxious and hopeful– through her bond and she herself became agitated. A part of Hermione's suffering was also hers.

"What is, Harry?" Hermione asked, voice almost breaking. From his initial outburst, it was way too clear which direction the conversation would take. It did not bode well for the two's relationship.

"That you're with  _her_  now," he snarled in fury, raising a finger to point at Pansy. "Dumbledore, he – He says you've been taken by the  _Dark Arts_!" The way he named them, you would think he was speaking about  _genocide_ , and not some silly old spell that involved no one but the two of them. Ah, and possibly the murder of any poor bastard who crossed them, she had to give him that one.

Pansy cast a non-verbal silencing spell all around them. She did not wish for the public to start attending. Potter yelling was enough, thank you very much, she would take other people's complaints on a further date.

Hermione had taken a few steps toward her friend and they were standing so close it made her nervous. The memory of Draco striking her replayed on her mind, and she shivered. Potter was not the tallest nor bulkiest of men, but he could hurt Granger easily, if he so wished. She kept a firm grip on her wand.

"Pansy's just helping me protect–" she tried to defend, but Potter interrupted her with a harsh laugh.

"Oh, it's  _Pansy_  now, isn't it?" he snorted and shook his head, incredulous. "Can't you see she's  _tricking_  you, Hermione? So smart and yet fucking Parkinson manages to convince you she's helping? You're a  _muggleborn_! Parkinson won't ever be your friend! She's trying to take you to You-Kno –"

Hermione's face had been getting redder and redder at each sentence and now, despite still looking hurt she also looked furious. "Yes, Harry, it's  _Pansy_  now," she spoke even louder than him, effectively cutting his rant short. " _Pansy_ , the only person who's actually offered to  _help_  me when I asked! Do you know who didn't?  _Dumbledore_!" she screeched with a viciousness that startled them all. " _Dumbledore_ , who would have left my ' _worthless'_ , muggle parents to  _die_!" her voice dripped poison as she dragged the words out.

Potter was visibly taken aback at her outburst. He shook his head very quickly, in disbelief, as if she had gone completely around the bend. "Dumbledore just wants what's best for all of us," he whispered, as if willing her to come back to her senses. As if just by worshiping the man's name as if he were a god, everything would turn out all right. "It's  _them_  who think your parents are worthless," he jerked his head in Pansy's direction once more.

She frowned. Well, that was just not true.  _Worthless_  was a harsh word. Muggles had invented the  _Yahoo_ , and they had even gone to the Moon. Credit must be given where it's due, she thought. Besides, Granger's parents were nice, and smart. "I happen to find Mike and Sarah  _delightful_ , Potter," she answered, all perfect Slytherin contempt.

Potter looked like a fish out of water, opening and closing his mouth, barely managing to stutter nonsense. "You're – She's – It's a trick! Hermione! That – She's  _lying_  to you! How can you not  _see_  that?" Pansy smirked from behind Granger's back, which probably only fuelled Potter's suspicions. She didn't care. Hermione was  _hers_. No stammering Gryffindor fool would take her away.

She was getting riled up, face now almost a dark burgundy. Well, okay, maybe not that much; but she was very, very flushed. "I can see just  _fine_." Her voice sounded harsh and Pansy could feel Hermione's magic getting out of control. Like an overflowing vase, it spilled from her in waves and charged the air. Judging by Potter's confused look, he could feel it too. "I can see further and better than  _you_."

Potter shook his head in desperation. "She's with  _Voldemort_!" That made Pansy's brows shoot up. How had he reached such a preposterous conclusion? If she were, she'd be going  _away_  from Granger. Circe, the dimwit needed Hermione's help even more than she did! Him and Freckly would perish the minute they were thrown out on their own.

" _What_?" Granger seemed to share her opinion. "Have you gone completely – Do you actually believe _I_  would join Voldemort?" the repeated use of the name made Pansy flinch.

"She's tricking you!" he repeated, running out of ideas. Or maybe of vocabulary, the poor twit. Pansy thought it would be smarter of him to  _ask_  Granger about her motives, instead of yelling. Hermione herself knew better than anyone how much of a bitch Pansy was. Potter should try to find out why she did not care, instead of trying to enlighten her.

"Did  _Dumbledore_  tell you that I joined Voldemort?" Hermione followed, ignoring his insistence. Again her magic pulsed strongly, making Pansy shiver. She wondered if she could pull a shield that smothered that feeling. At this rate, they would attract someone only with the magic flares.

"Are  _you_  doing this?" Potter asked in turn, staring at the goosebumps on his bare arms. He had apparently been able to feel her magic flaring. Pansy wondered if it was getting more obvious, more intense, or if Potter was somehow especially adept at sensing the darkness. "Do you  _see_  what the Dark Arts are turning you into?" his expression had morphed from righteous fury into horrified dread.

"Do  _you_  see what Dumbledore is turning you into?" she spat back. "When have I ever not stood by your side? At every turn, when facing any danger, I got your back! Where was Dumbledore when you protected the Philosopher's stone? When someone had to find out there was a Basilisk within the school? When it was time to save Sirius? When we needed to get rid of Umbrige to get to the Ministry? Who followed you all those times, Harry? I almost got poisoned, I got petrified, I flew a Hippogriff and broke the law to turn back  _time_. I faced a werewolf and a supposed convict. I flew a thestral, and I duelled Death Eaters and I took a curse by Dolohov! Think about it for once, Harry.  _Who_  helped you?"

What, what, what? Forget the philosopher's stone –crazy as the thought was– what were they saying about a  _Basilisk_?  _Within the school_? Fuck, that must have been the monster within the infamous Chamber of Secrets in their second year! She remembered they could petrify too, asides from killing. But who could have thought… Those things existed only in books, and in mythology! Who the hell even ran into a Basilisk in the modern days? And which kind of crazy Headmaster did not evacuate a school with a Basilisk within it? She huffed. She needed to ask Granger a few things. The whole  _turn back time_  thing was also a promising topic.

Granger's monologue had not only left her shocked and full of questions, it had also shut Potter up pretty efficiently. Pansy admitted that, where it she in his place, she would be pretty convinced.

The silence was tense and prolonged. Potter looked torn in doubt, clearly fighting some sort of inner battle. In the end, he said, "I don't think you joined Voldemort. That's stupid."

"Good," Granger answered, relaxing very slightly. "Because I haven't. And I  _never_  will." Potter nodded, and seemed to genuinely believer her. Pansy just thought Gryffindor interactions made no sense at all. First you throw around random, ridiculous accusations and then you just believe each other blindly?

"Are you using Dark Magic?" he asked, not beating around the bush.

"Yes," she answered without batting an eyelid. Pansy fought the urge to loudly mourn the death of subtlety.

Potter's eyes darkened. "You don't plan on stopping," he guessed.

"No. And I'm not leaving Pansy," she hurried to add. His face became grimmer at that. "But I can assure you she's not joining Voldemort either." When Potter scoffed, thinking the notion ridiculous, she asked him, "When have I ever been wrong?"

Potter seemed, once more, confused. Apparently it was his preferred look. He still shook his head, though, and warned her, "You can't control Dark Magic. It darkens your thoughts," he said in a fairly ominous tone. "It guides you, Hermione. It guides you all along the way, until the day you realize Dark Magic controls you." Hermione's face had gone white with his words. In a most impressive –and unforeseen– display of what she assumed was pure instinct, Potter had struck right where it hurt. Hermione had been fearing precisely that possibility. "But by then, it's too late. Hermione, please, stop while you can," he begged her.

When it became clear that Hermione did not intend to answer Potter clenched his fists and turned to leave. With his hand already on the door, he just said, "Whatever happens, Hermione, I'll have your back too," he promised. " _You_ , I trust." And he left.

Clearly, he meant to say he did not trust Pansy one bit.

* * *

Hermione prided herself on not crying until Harry had left. As he threw her a last pleading look, she felt her eyes water. She had known this would happen, but it did not hurt any less. Harry would have felt betrayed only by knowing of her new relationship with Pansy. A  _Slytherin_. Reconciliation after that would have been practically impossible. But if you threw in a pinch of Dark Magic, then it became  _hopeless_. Harry's vision of the world was too black and white. You were either good or bad, Dumbledore's or Voldemort's, with or against him.

A part of her had been broken with Harry's parting. He had said he had her back, but she had her doubts. He trusted her? Dumbledore could change that, with time. Convince him maybe not that she was evil, but that she was a victim of evil. It was probably what the man thought himself. How grating. She had gone through all the trouble of rebellion and what they thought was that poor, naïve, silly Hermione had gotten  _tricked_. They though Pansy evil but at least they thought her cunning. In that opinion there was a certain respect for Pansy's intelligence, that she was not receiving.

She breathed in, willing herself to relax. She was irritable, much more than usual, because the damned ritual had left her with that unsatisfied urge, that  _need_  that made all her nerves tingle. It made her thoughts go in directions that were simply inconvenient. Who cared, if they thought her silly? She would prove them wrong, in time. She would show them all how Dumbledore had been  _wrong_.

She sniffled and brushed away the tears, turning to face Pansy. "Well, better here than in public," she said, voice shaking. Privately, she also thought it was better Ron had not joined the screaming match. He lost his temper even more easily than Harry.

Pansy nodded and awkwardly gave her a half-hug, half-pat-on-the-back. "Cheer up, Granger. You still have  _me_ ," she smiled in obvious fake sweetness and Hermione snorted.

They sat one in front of the other and Pansy pulled out The Book, conveniently transfigured to look like a Potions text. "The only person who would help," she told her bitterly, remembering what she had said –yelled, actually– to Harry. That had been a bit unfair of her. The truth was that  _no one_  had been willing to help –well, Garcia had, to be honest– and she had just cut a deal with Pansy.

"You know what they say about me," she drawled poshly, smirking, "selfless and helpful as a Hufflepuff." That made Hermione laugh, which lifted her spirits slightly. She did still have Pansy. And given how the girl had nobody else, it was likely to last.

A knock on the side of the still open door startled them. Pansy almost pulled her wand out once more, but managed to stop herself at the sound of Luna's serene voice. "May I  _join_  you?"

She did not  _only_  have Pansy. She had Luna too, she thought. And Garcia and Charity, maybe, if the whole Dark Arts thing did not reach their ears.

"Sure," Hermione said, ignoring Pansy's not-so-subtle eyebrow wiggling. It was probably meant to express 'No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no for the love of Merlin, Granger, are you out of your mind, NO!' but hey, it might also have meant 'Yay! I  _love_  meeting new people! What a wonderful idea!' right? So she answered, "There's plenty of space."

Luna sat beside a resigned Pansy and smiled warmly. "Yes, two is most likely not enough," she agreed. "Are Victoria and Charity going to join us?" she asked, pulling out the new number of the Quibbler.

Hermione nodded. "Charity sent me a letter a few days ago. We agreed to meet on the Express."

"Five," Luna answered dreamily. "It's nice. We could still fit a couple more, though, don't you think?" she asked her, eyes unusually shiny. She seemed excited, for some reason.

"And we could just enjoy the leg room, Lovegood," Pansy scowled. "I swear; this  _need_  for massive company…" She rolled her eyes. "Ladies, buy  _less_  by buying  _better_ ," she advised.

Hermione snorted. "You haven't bought  _less_  in your life," even in the muggle shopping mall, she had come out with three new, completely unnecessary dresses. "And we could use more than three friends, I'd say, Pansy; decrease the enemy-to-friend ratio a little."

"Oh, have you argued with Harry already?" Luna asked, sad for her. Hermione nodded, face stretched in a tense smile. "He's probably being preyed upon by a Blibbering Humdinger," she said pensively. "They're hard to identify as anything but benign, but they blab so much they confuse you."

Luna had an insight few people possessed, and even though some of her beloved creatures were most likely non-existent –something Hermione blamed entirely on Mr Lovegood's influence– she tended to make sense. Albeit in her own, roundabout way.

Pansy snorted, apparently amused enough now to forget she had been wishing for privacy. "Sounds likely. I'd say Potter's particularly susceptible to them."

Hermione let her lips curl in a slow smile. "Good thing this particular Blibbering Humdinger seems keen on keeping us away."

Pansy nodded, and turned another page of The Book. "Let's try to do the same with the  _ill-will-mites_ , shall we?" she said with a smirk, and Luna beamed at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I update one day earlier than planned (I aim for Sundays) because I'm not sure where I'll be tomorrow. Hope you liked it :)
> 
> In the original 6th book Harry, Ginny and Ron return to Hogwarts through the Floo Netwrok. It's unclear if it's only them or also the rest of the student body. I've changed this part, because I wanted the scenes in the train. Also, I thought it didn't make much sense that the Express was considered safe at the beginning of the school year, but not after Christmas. Did something big happen in the book, between these dates, that I missed in my re-read?
> 
> This chapter is longer because I wanted to add some snippets that showed Pansy and Hermione cohabitating in the muggle world, but without sacrificing the plot advancements. Otherwise, this story becomes even more slow-paced haha
> 
> Also, I made a mistake in the previous chapter. Google isn't out yet! They're using Yahoo! Thanks ForsakenKalika for noticing!
> 
> I thank also shuns, KnitKnitRead and thebibliophile_rises for ideas on escalators! And of course, anyone who commented, left kudos and bookmarked the story! Thank you all for reading :)


	13. Crazed

**Coven. Ch. 13: Crazed**

She had not expected to find herself in front of Pansy Parkinson's smug, ugly mug. The scene left her speechless for a few seconds, in which she had to look around the compartment twice in order to convince herself she was in the right place. She threw a questioning look toward Hermione, who threw an apologetic one back. They would need to talk about that later. She had come to terms with the fact that Victoria was nuts, and Lovegood looked like she had lost the plot at some point in her life. She needed  _normal_  friends, so Hermione could not be allowed to go astray. And inviting Parkinson into their compartment could only be described as madness.

Victoria got tired of having her block the way and just pushed her in, taking on the fact that Parkinson had joined their newly formed group with remarkable lack of outer reaction. She went past her and sat next to Hermione, on the less crowded side. Charity sighed and joined them, annoyed at the inconvenience.

"Five's so much better than four," Victoria said, relieved. Ah, of course that was the reason. More than five years together and she sometimes still forgot. To her best friend, numbers were more important than Parkinson.

Charity forced herself to smile pleasantly. She disliked Parkinson and personally thought she was a vicious, cut-throat bi– No! No, that was not a nice thing to think. A friend of a friend was a new friend indeed, and so she would be pleasant to the girl. Even if she had to spend seven hours making small-talk. Merlin knew she could not leave it in Victoria or Luna's hands.

"But with five it's asymmetric," Hermione pointed out. Victoria sighed and they embarked on a discussion regarding whether the dreadfulness of number four was worse or better than symmetry, which Charity had no intention to join.

"How was your Christmas?" she asked the other two, willing to be the first one to make the effort. She usually was, anyway.

" _Dreadful_ ," Parkinson answered, without raising her head from her book. Charity felt her smile strain slightly.

"Rather nice, after dad managed to put out the fire. St Mungo's has impressive mince pie." A bit like Victoria, Luna was hard to maintain within the tracks of  _small_ -talk.

Still, Hufflepuffs were not known to give up easily. "My step-mother makes a mince-pie to die for, too!" There, acknowledge Luna's words and then deviate the conversation toward something lighter. "But this year we gathered the whole family and went to Scotland for a couple of days, rented a nice place. And you won't believe it, but there was no way to use the kitchen properly. No spells would settle! It turned out there was a  _nullifly_  infestation!" she laughed, Luna nodding along in interest. "We spent the whole time catching the little buggers. And the muggle way to boot, since they nullify magic!"

"Circe," Parkinson snorted rudely, still not looking at her. "Could you get any  _duller_?"

Charity, who had managed to make even Dolores Umbridge laugh at an anecdote about a goose and a pointy hat, felt her face flush. That nasty little – No. Breath, Charity. Combat rudeness with kindness. Make your enemies ashamed of themselves.

"Sorry if we're bothering you, Parkinson," she answered. "We'll try to be quieter," she assured her, and went to address Luna again.

Parkinson snorted and lowered her book for the first time, staring at her with a mix of disdain and incredulity. " _Dull_  and  _quiet_ , aren't you the perfect  _little_  Hufflepuff?" she mocked. "Go make yourself invisible in some far-away corner, Jones. Give the rest of us some more breathing air."

Shameless skank! No, breath, breath. Being the better person seemed to not be working on Parkinson. People usually went red in embarrassment when she responded in a solicitous manner after they snapped at her. Well, with the stellar exception of Victoria, who usually managed to make her lose her temper. She, too, was rather shameless.

"Oh my, Parkinson, with a nose scrunched up as far high as yours I'd have said you could breathe better than the rest of us," she answered, smile never faltering. She knew vain bit –  _women_  like Parkinson. She was absolutely sure she was conscious of her pug-like nose.

Parkinson narrowed her eyes and closed the book, sitting straighter.  _Bring it on_ , she thought,  _see how dull and quiet this perfect little Hufflepuff is_.

"If you want more air I could open the window," Luna offered, seemingly oblivious to the confrontation. "Otherwise, you two might catch  _Panting Passion_."

She smiled kindly at her. "Thanks Luna, Parkinson seems to need–"

The other girl interrupted in a cutting snap, "No need, Lovegood. Jones here could use some  _passion_  in her life, I'll bet."

It was her turn now to narrow her eyes.

Charity had very few people she truly disliked. She thought Slughorn way too much of a sycophant, Blaise Zabini the king of tossers and Dolores Umbridge the queen. However, even among those people, she had never truly met one whom she could not  _pretend_  to like when absolutely necessary. That was, until she had been forced to interact with Pansy Parkinson.

She had a gift, a talent, an unmatched ability to get under her skin in a way even Victoria had never achieved. Insulting, abrasive, openly hostile; she did not allow her to pretend she was unbothered. Still, she was pleased she had not lost the syrupy smile even once during the full seven hours of train ride. Parkinson might have turned the trip into an unpleasant day, but she had given back as good as she had got.

She could not imagine what Hermione saw in the aggravating, spiteful girl. But it was clear –in the small gestures: Hermione passing her a warm drink when she coughed, Parkinson handing her an onion-flavoured bean and sniggering, and then throwing her an almond one to compensate– that they were used to each other. They  _cared_  for each other.

Parkinson reached the thestral-pulled carriage and held the door open. Charity narrowed her eyes in suspicion, because the girl was  _not_  that nice. Parkinson smirked and said "I'll hold the door while you take a run up to jump in, Jones. Life must be difficult when you're the size of a house-elf," she said in faux-pity.

She smiled while cursing her inside. "Don't be so  _nice_  Parkinson. Good deeds will aggravate whichever devil you usually worship."

Victoria reached them and asked, impatient, "What's with you stopping in front of all open doors today?" she frowned and stared, suspicious, "Was it advised in today's Horoscope? Your fondness for Divination is getting out of hand, Chari," she complained. Parkinson laughed.

Charity sighed, tired. Why did she always surround herself with such very annoying people?

* * *

Hermione sat front row in Transfigurations, their very first class of the week. Harry was sulking two rows away, next to Ron who was throwing her non-subtle cautious glances. He looked less confrontational than she had expected, and perhaps more confused.

She surprisingly found herself not caring. Spending the whole night so far away from Pansy had her almost biting her nails. She needed her to get there and stay  _close_. She needed to feel her magic reaching toward hers. Only then would the nagging and persistent humming at the back of her skull find rest. If that feeling kept going with the same intensity, they would go crazy in a matter of months.

She felt her nerves buzz in happiness, a little bit of the familiar pleasing fire that came with their dark magic lighting again in her veins. Pansy was getting nearer. She smiled as she heard her confident strides, the clean sound of her heels hitting stone, as she approached the empty seat by her side. She was absolutely certain Pansy had waited until the last second to enter the room on  _purpose_. If they were going to put on a show, then Pansy would wait for the crowd to be present.

McGonagall turned, eyes narrowed in annoyance at the student who had the gall to be almost late to her class. All eyes followed Pansy, and all eyes went from confused to open wide to outright goggling as the Slytherin sat next to Hermione Granger. As if rehearsed, they both leaned against the back of their chairs at the same time and crossed legs and then arms, defiant.

The classroom filled with loud murmurs and surprised gasps all around them. McGonagall had to call for silence twice, which she had never seen happen in her life. The air was tense. The Slytherins had gone  _very_  quiet. Daphne Greengrass stared at Pansy with satisfied amusement, but the rest of her house gave off a feeling of  _hostility_. Except for Theodore Nott, who was pointedly not looking in their direction.

The rest of the student body took turns staring at them and at Harry and Ron, as if waiting for open conflict. Given the boys' volatility, Hermione figured they expected to see fireworks. The fact that the two were the only people not to look surprised only fuelled rumours further.

McGonagall started the class, clearly opting to ignore the front-row display of new allegiances. However, the icy looks she was receiving were clue enough. Her favourite professor was not on her side anymore.

Hermione thought she should probably be feeling worse. Remorseful, ashamed, corroded by doubts at least. She only felt relieved. Relieved that, at last, Pansy was back at her side.

* * *

Pansy's feet felt heavy as lead when the door to the Common Room opened. In an instant, all snakes had her eyes fixed on her. It was crowded. Everyone wanted to see how this one played out.

She walked in armed with false confidence, glossy lips twisted in a sneer, eyes narrowed in a show of contempt. They did not make her wait.

"Look who decided to turn up," said Murton out loud. "Our own little  _mudblood_  lover."

Chuckles were heard all over the room, but she carefully took notice of the people who kept quiet. Not quite allies, maybe, but at least not enemies.

"You like muggles now, Pansy? You think they're wor –Wro – They  _deserve_  our company?" said Goyle, approaching her, wand in hand but not aimed. He probably thought he looked threatening. Idiotic lap-dog; so untalented and yet he dared to underestimate her? "Maybe our Pansy needs to be reminded who's her  _Lord_ , and what's her  _place_ ," Gregory went on in that high, mean little voice, now standing barely two feet away. Some people gasped. Some shifted uncomfortably. Some chuckled again. Everyone realized what Goyle intended to do.

Millicent stood against the wall at the far back, face ashen, trying to look anywhere but at Pansy. Greengrass maintained her expression carefully neutral, but could not completely hide how distasteful she found Goyle. Crabbe was laughing, entertained. Zabini, Draco and Theodore were nowhere to be found.

Pansy raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. The stupid  _monkey_  could not even manage decent vocabulary; what a very inelegant threat. So much for pureblood supremacy. She stood still, proud, unflinching and unyielding. Goyle, having expected to inspire the fear he could usually draw from his victims, was unhappy. He waved his wand in a movement that she thought, frankly,  _slow_  and viciously started, " _Cru –_ "

Before he had finished pronouncing the word his wand slipped from between his chubby fingers and flew a perfect arch toward Pansy's barely raised hand. She shuddered at the thought that she was touching something of  _his_ , the disgusting sweaty pig, but outwardly smirked. Wandless and voiceless, that ought to impress the little maggots. Back in her house, Granger had made her practice it until she fainted.

Hermione had told her why  _Unforgivables_  were called such, unlike other curses equally fearsome. They were spells that, if you succeeded in casting, you unequivocally  _meant_  to cast. Therefore, no one could claim they had not intended the harm caused. That was because unlike any other spell in existence, those three did not require any skill. They were fuelled purely by  _hatred_. No wonder, she thought, Crabbe and Goyle had found their calling.

She tossed Goyle's wand aside derisively, and casted " _Crucio_!" Pansy had hatred to spare. She hated the revolting, almost-squib mean-eyed bully in front of her. She hated the passiveness of her housemates who, either terrified or amused, were too craven to take action. She hated her father and the mad man he had sold her to, he hated the Death Eaters and their Dark Lord and all they stood for: her lack of  _freedom_.

Goyle screamed in the most agonized sound she had ever heard. He fell to the ground and spasmed and convulsed and  _suffered_  as he drooled all over the rich, green carpets. The room collectively held its breath, either in shock or in fear, as Goyle thrashed and cried in a sound that seemed to come straight from the underworld.

Pansy let herself smile, letting all of her frustration –the anger, the hungry need she still felt for Hermione's presence– seep into the spell. Goyle was screaming himself raw and it was  _music_  to her ears.

After long seconds during which nobody moved a single muscle, Crabbe reacted and drew his wand. Pansy saw him through the corner of her eye and lifted her spell on the other dimwit, the sudden silence deafening. She was faster than Crabbe, who had managed to turn himself into a fear-inspiring minion through the backing of the Dark Lord, and not talent. She disarmed him too instead of using something flashier. It was more humiliating this way, and also revealed less of her true abilities. Crabbe raised his arms as Pansy held him at wandpoint.

" _Kneel_ ," she ordered, and he hurried to obey, his eyes fixed on the whimpering mess that was his crony.

She very slowly let her eyes wander around the room, fixing anyone she personally considered a threat with a very stern look. "Anyone else feels the need to express their opinion on how I decide to live my life?" she asked in a saccharine tone. "Murton?" she looked at the older girl, who paled and shook her head quickly.

No one dared to try and draw his wand for fear she was faster, again, and turned them into a just slightly prettier version of Greg Goyle.

"The next  _idiot_  who tries to tell me what to do will experience, first hand, how much worse I can make the cruciatus," it was a bit of a bluff, as this had been her first time ever casting it, but they did not need to know that.

Having spoken, she headed for her room without rush, feeling everyone's eyes on her back. She went up the stairs, ten different shielding charms all around her –and  _fianto duro_ , said Hermione's voice–, willing herself to pretend she felt confident enough to show them her back. Bluffing was her best weapon. Bluffing and inspiring fear on them.

She closed the door and heard the room she had left behind fill with alarmed voices and quick movements. She hurried to position herself far from the only entrance to the room, and facing it. She half expected to have a larger and better organized group come in to retaliate at any moment. However, it was Tracey Davies who greeted her.

"Hi Pansy," she said smiling, as if they were the best of friends. She crossed the room in confident strides, bumping into Millicent's trunk and knocking down one of her most prized jewellery boxes, "Did you hear? Someone peed all over the carpets in the Common Room," she said in amusement.

Pansy let herself relax enough to sit on her bed, and tried to sound nonchalant, "How uncouth," she clacked her tongue. "It's like we're raising pigs."

Tracey laughed. "Pigs are raised and then belong in the slaughterhouse _._ " She smirked, "But they must be taught  _manners_  in time," and held a hand out to her.

Pansy smiled slowly and took it. "Some are such slow learners, though. It may take more than one lesson," she warned.

"Then, as proper witches, isn't it our duty to deliver?" she asked, and sat next to her.

Pansy smirked. "Indeed. Manners are, after all, what sets us above the  _masses_."

* * *

Hermione was  _beyond_  irritated. Pansy had told her all was well, but she could feel each and every one of her emotions through the bond. She knew the Slytherins must be giving her a hard time. As she was also looking quite smug, and the rest of the snakes wary, she supposed she had managed; but knowing she lived in that pit made her nights restless.

To make matters worse, she was being treated like a pariah not only within her own Common Room –which she had expected– but also by most professors. They were distant, their tone icier, their praising scarce. How grating, that only Slughorn and  _Snape_  had remained unchanged.

Adding to it, a couple potions classes ago she had been overshadowed by Harry  _again_. After almost burning her hair in her attempts to brew an excellent antidote to a blended poison, Harry had charmed Slughorn with a  _bezoar_. She had brewed perfection in a cauldron, and had lost to a fucking  _rock_. She would bet her own wand that he had not even thought about it himself. She had grumbled about it to Pansy, and she had just made fun of her for hours!

And to top it all, that buggering  _need_  for completion would not go away. It was stuck on the back of her mind, tingling, prickling, never letting her forget. It was like having someone follow her around hitting the top of her head with a spoon, time and time again on the same spot. She was going crazy.

She wished Pansy would get there quickly. The past three weeks back at Hogwarts had been a nightmare of  _hunger_ , and it only became bearable when she was close by.

Surprisingly, though, she did not come alone. Tracey Davies followed behind her, head held high and nose turned up, as if daring anyone to tell her she could not. As she sat right next to them, and very publicly, Hermione found herself both curious and slightly pleased. Could Pansy have a new ally, in the snake pit? If there was now the two of them against Greengrass and Bulstrode in their room, Pansy's chances of surviving had become much, much higher.

"Are you sure you want to sit here?" she still asked, warning.

Davies tensed at her comment and narrowed her eyes. "My father's a  _muggle_ , in case you've forgotten, Granger. Why would I mind you?"

Hermione shook her head, noticing Davies had misunderstood her. "The  _whole_  school hates us," she pointed out.

Davies shrugged, relaxing when she understood her meaning. "No one in Slytherin can afford to be seen making nice to the  _half-blood_ ," she spat, not hiding her anger at the unfairness of it. "And everyone else assumes I'm a future Death Eater!" She went red at that, nostrils flaring. "As if I don't love my own father.  _How could I join the people who want him dead_?" she whispered in passionate fury.

Hermione felt herself thrilled with Davies' troubles. She now understood how Pansy could once have been happy at her misery. She pitied Davies and the situation she was facing, of course, but thanks to that they had gained someone very valuable. She shared a quick look with Pansy, and received a smug little smile back. Good, they were on the same track of thought, for once.

She smiled in sympathy at Davies, and said, "What do you think Gryffindors think about  _me_ , just because I speak to Pansy?" Davies grimaced and nodded in commiseration. "Of course it's absolutely ridiculous, but you apparently can't expect people to have a modicum of  _common sense_." She frowned. Had she just sounded like  _Pansy_?

Davies snorted in a show of inelegance that Slytherin girls rarely displayed. "I've seen how  _Professors_  look at you. At  _you_  and  _me_ , and  _Pansy_. You'd think  _they_  at least would be smart."

"They adulate Dumbledore as dogs begging for food," Pansy added in distaste. "If you don't fit his standards, Tracey dearest, then you're the  _enemy_."

Davies scowled, but it was not directed at the two of them. "At least Slughorn's nice enough," she said to Hermione. "Or neutral. Feels nice, not being treated like a  _criminal_."

Pansy scoffed, "The bloody salad-dodging sycophant. Our only ally is Potter's number-one arse-licker." Hermione suspected Pansy's profound dislike of the man arose from not having been invited to the Slug Club.

Tracey shook her head. "Nah, he's not." They both turned to look at her, surprised. "He's avoiding Potter now, don't know why," she shrugged. "He tried to speak to him after class and the man couldn't even finish his excuse, he was already running for the door."

"I can't think of anything that could make Slughorn forsake his favourite  _collectible_ ," Pansy said, glancing at her. Hermione nodded, sharing her suspicions. What had Harry done?

"We're all disposable," Tracey said grimly. "Potter must have started generating more trouble than benefits."

* * *

She stood surrounded by their new  _gang_. She had grumbled and protested and outright demanded to Hermione to ditch the girls, to no avail. However, in the end, she had been forced to admit that she was  _right_. Adding Lovegood and two Hufflepuffs –especially Jones, who for some unimaginable reason everyone seemed to think well of– to their group had turned most condemning looks into ones of pure confusion. As confused people didn't mutter slurs when they crossed ways with her in the corridors, it was an improvement.

When it was only her and Granger, more than one Gryffindor felt it was his noble  _duty_  to make a fuss about how much he disapproved of their choices. Ernie McMillan had also made a comment or two that she had not cared for. Hermione had snapped at him so harshly he had actually bolted the room. It was not a smart idea to get on their nerves, sensitive as they were because of the bloody incomplete bond.

However, when their whole group sat together in the library, now often joined by Tracey, they managed to study without trouble. Who would have ever told her? Two mudbloods, a half-blood, an airhead and  _Jones_ ; the most  _Hufflepuff_  Hufflepuff to have ever Hufflepuffed.

She was brought back to the present when the small, unimpressive Ministry Wizard made his appearance. He stood in front of their Heads of House as he made his introductory speech, which was interrupted by Draco's chatting. She smiled, pleased, when McGonagall reprimanded him. Sodding bastard. She wished she could have crucioed  _him_.

Their apparition instructor, _Tiny_  Twycross as they would call him from then on, continued on and asked them all to let a five feet space in front of themselves.

They quickly reshuffled, Pansy and Jones trying to end up as far away from each other as possible, and she noticed Potter scurrying across the whole room to find a place behind Malfoy.

"What's with Potter?" she asked Hermione, who stood at her right.

"Just found the perfect position to stare at Malfoy's arse?" Garcia suggested from Hermione's right, earning a chuckle. Circe, the muggleborn had a serious number-related problem, but she could be fun company, at times –a mystery how she and Jones were such good friends–. She had once asked her what was wrong with her head, and apparently it was a muggle disease called  _Oceedee_. Hermione had assured her it was not contagious.

Twycross conjured wooden hoops for everyone, and just repeated over and over again: Destination, Determination, Deliberation. The three Ds. The girls all sniggered at Garcia's well-timed dick joke.

Everyone gave it their first try, though she held back and just observed. Pansy wanted to see if anyone succeeded, or if they were just expected to make a fool of themselves. Indeed, the only movement people seemed to achieve was tumbling down where they stood. Granger narrowed her eyes in confusion, unused to not succeeding on her first try.

"You managed to apparate to my house," Hermione reminded her. "You said it was like letting yourself fall toward the  _pull_ ," she tried to get her to share more.

Pansy scrunched her nose. "I'm not sure how I did it. But I think if you stood within the circle I could manage to get to you," she told her. "I can  _feel_  where you are." Hermione nodded. She could probably feel it too. Feel her magic calling out to her whole being. It had been easy enough, to follow that sensation, to let herself be drawn. "But you're by my side now, so it's actually  _distracting_ ," she complained.

"Try to remember the feeling," Hermione advised her. "You'll probably get it faster than the rest of us. Just remember you've already done it once. You can do it again," she said, convinced, and went back to stare at her hoop, full of determination. She stared at her, trying to remember the last time someone had had so much  _faith_  in her abilities. Oh, right, it had probably been  _never_. Well, Granger had her shortcomings, but she was actually  _smart_. She must know what she was talking about, she told herself, a smile creeping onto her face.

Almost one hour later, her headache and her frustration had gotten much worse, and the only interesting thing that had happened had been Susan Bones splinching.

"We're supposed to have  _twelve_  lessons," Jones reminded them. "We're not expected to succeed on the first one." She looked flushed and exhausted, and much like she had given up for the day.

Pansy tried to used her  _determination_  to prove Jones wrong as fuel for apparition, but stopped when her intense staring only managed to set the wooden circle on fire.

* * *

Vicky turned the corner and one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, yes! Seven portraits on the corridor walls. She took that one and successfully managed to head toward the Library. She was already running late, and she disliked lateness, but oh! Seven steps in that small staircase that headed east. Ah, damn it. She would be late, she knew it. She briefly entertained the thought of ignoring the tempting stairs and keeping straight. Just at the consideration, the familiar anxiety settled on the base of her stomach, and breathing became slightly harder. She cursed and took the stairs, feeling both relieved and frustrated at once.

She passed three doors on her left, and five torches on the wall, and then eleven portraits on the right-hand corridor but none of that triggered the compulsion. Good, she was again headed for the Library.

She turned left this time, which was good because she had gone left, right, left, how symmetric, and kept going until the sound of voices drew her attention. Being around people sometimes eased the obsession, but she did not think Potter and Weasley would set her at peace. They crossed each other, and Potter threw her a careful glance. He had been doing so since she had started hanging around Hermione, but had not yet risked a conversation. Weasley, though, just walked ahead, eyes slightly unfocussed, and strangely worried about the whereabouts of  _Romilda Vane_ , whomever that was. They turned to their right, which was perfect because she did the same, symmetric.

She spotted Filch ahead of her, harassing some fourth-years about the whereabouts of his still missing cat, and she thanked the heavens that there were seven windows to her left and so she turned, and avoided him. She was getting close now. It was a good thing she had not ended up in the seventh floor again; it always seemed to attract her. Curiously, same thing was apparently happening to Malfoy. She had run into him up there a couple times, usually accompanied by younger girls. A bit shady, in her opinion.

Finally, after having toured half the Castle, she was in front of the Library doors. They had arranged to meet there with Minnie, which allowed her to ignore the compulsion to count tables and give preference to not breaking a previous arrangement. This way, she could sit with her. Still, she was grateful Minnie had taken to sit on the central table on the seventh row. A pity that, with her, Chari, Loony, Pansy and Tracey they were only  _six_. It was so close to perfection, and yet not quite there.

She went in, and was momentarily startled at both the large number of people within the Library and the missing Minnie and Pansy. Goodness! They would be  _four_  again. How  _tragic_.

She first went to Madame Pince and…twenty-three books on her desk, a  _primer_  number, nice. A sound to her left drew her attention, and she turned to face Blaise Zabini. He sneered while looking down on her, and made a show of taking one step back to put some distance between them. Or was it two, maybe? She did not know. The compulsion momentarily forgotten, she had  _stopped counting_ when faced with his dark features.

His skin was a perfect shade of dark chocolate, completely unblemished, without a spot, pimple, wrinkle or freckle to be seen. His cheekbones were high, his jaw knife-sharp and his lips full and dark and inviting. His eyes were framed by long, dense lashes and turned upwards in feline contempt. She was absolutely sure that, were she allowed to measure it, she would find his features following the Golden Ratio. And, above all, the man was  _so very symmetric_. His face, his lips, his eyes, his ears; everything in him was a perfect mirror left to right.

"What the fuck are you staring at?" he snapped at her.

Seven words, she counted. Gods, he was  _perfect_.

* * *

Hermione was displeased that the trip to Hogsmeade had been cancelled. True, given how Katie had not yet returned from St Mungo's and it was already almost March, it was not a surprise. Besides, further disappearances had been reported by the  _Prophet_. The village was probably not deemed safe anymore. It was a wise decision, but that did not improve Hermione's mood. Nothing much did, these days.

She found Pansy in the Room of Requirements, free for once, and she let herself fall on the rich couch, right by her side. With everyone around, they had no choice but to postpone their planned trip to the Library. They drew way too much attention these days, and Hermione wanted to further her research into both Occlumancy and bonding magic. She could not afford not to, with so many suspicious eyes around. Garcia would not be pleased with the broken arrangement, but she could worry about it later.

"This is driving me nuts," she complained, scooting closer to her. Contact with Pansy's skin made her feel better, even if only a little bit. Her inner yearning calmed, her magic stopped trying to get out of her body to call for her other half.

Pansy snorted, "This morning I  _yelled_  at a first year because she matched burgundy shoes with an orange hair tie. Like, was she raised in a barn?"

"Is that out of the norm for you?" she asked, amused.

Pansy raised one of her perfect eyebrows and gave her a steady look. "I don't bully children, Granger," she sneered, "I have  _standards_."

Standards or not, Hermione could commiserate. She was snappish, tense. Just today she had already lashed out at Lavender at breakfast and snapped at Terry Boot in Herbology, which had earned her a very serious look from Harry. No doubt, he was associating her moodiness with the Dark Arts. She hated how her current situation was proving Dumbledore right, in his eyes.

Pansy was lazily turning pages of a Potions book which she was in no need to read. She could feel her restlessness. It was like having and  _itch_  they could not  _scratch_ , and it was slowly driving them mad. Like having a fly buzzing around their heads over and over again, and they knew it was a matter of time until they stood and killed the annoying little thing for good.

Worst of all, since they needed to make sure Pansy had enough power to defend herself within the dungeons, they renewed their bond every two weeks. The  _urge_  they got afterwards was beyond unbearable. Hermione had the alarming suspicion that it got worse every time.

"We need to do something about this," Pansy reminded her.

Hermione frowned at the suggestion. "So, you want us to just go and  _kill_  someone?" she emphasized the word, moving to look straight into her eyes. "You're suggesting murder, Pansy.  _Murder_  for power!" That was wrong. Too much. They could share blood in a consensual way to get power. She could accept that, even if the ritual was clearly leading toward a dark path. But she could not, would not,  _murder_.

Pansy set a hand on her cheek and got closer, speaking barely a few centimetres away from her lips. "Are you telling me that there is no one," she paused for the sake dramatism, " _absolutely_   _no one_  in this world that wouldn't be better off  _dead_?"

Hermione furrowed her brows and could not help but think about Dolohov, and the scar that crossed her chest, or Rabastan Lestrange, who would get a terrified young girl as a bride, and probably  _enjoy_  it.

Her magic danced happily at the thought of  _killing_  those people, her yearning intensifying on the single instant she gave herself the liberty to consider the option. Her hands trembled, eager to take action. Pansy must have seen the flash of doubt in her eyes, because she smiled smugly.

"Like killing two birds with a single  _Avada_ ," she said.

"They're all in Azkaban," Hermione noted, struggling to control her baser urges. She understood Pansy's point. The world could stand losing Dolores Umbridge, or Bellatrix Lestrange. But, even if she were willing to do some moral gymnastics, it was simply not a practical suggestion.

"Surely not all of them," she insisted, "Surely we can find a common enemy closer to home."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and following this! Special thanks to Gremlin Jack for betaing, as always! It's all moving faster now, and we're finally going to see some action soon :)
> 
> I must say though that work has started once more (goodbye vacation!) and so I'm going to slow down with updates. I can't promise much, but I'll do my best to still post regularly!


	14. Crime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It goes dark in this one. Return to warnings in Ch.1 before deciding if you want to read on.

**Coven. Ch. 14: Crime**

Harry fidgeted awkwardly. After almost two months of silent treatment, speaking to Hermione felt a foreign mix of wrong and familiar. He searched her face for any signs of what Dumbledore insisted must be happening within her head; but he could only tell that she looked haggard. There were dark bags under her eyes, and her hair was tied in an even messier bundle of knots than usual, but if he had not known otherwise he would have said she was simply stressed. Was Dark Magic supposed to be stressful?

"So the poison was in the mead?" she asked, concerned. Her face had gone deadly pale at hearing of Ron's accident, which convinced him she had –as expected– nothing to do with it.

Harry had already recounted the story what felt like a hundred times, but considered Hermione deserved to hear it from him and not the impersonal and slanderous rumour mill. It was not one of Dumbledore's secrets after all, and he owed her at least that. They might be having… issues at the moment, but the Golden Trio had gone through Hell together, and it meant something. Hermione had reminded him of that.

He nodded. "Fred thought Slughorn might have slipped something in, but–"

"I doubt it," she dismissed the idea without a second thought, and he found himself smiling. It was always reassuring to have Hermione be absolutely certain of something.

"I thought maybe the target could be Slughorn himself, 'cause he'd been on the run from Voldemort for long. But Ginny reminded me, the bottle was meant for Dumbledore in the first place."

Hermione's features lost the feel of annoyed tiredness for the first time since they had met, as she lifted her eyes to look at his, and yet said nothing. "What?" he asked her, eager for some more input. "What do you think?"

She hesitated only for a brief second. "Whomever planned this is not the sharpest tool in the shed, is he? Slughorn, give such a tasty treat to someone else? No way," she shook her head, and her eyes shone with the fire he was used to see in them as she said, "And doesn't this remind you of another incompetent criminal?"

Harry gasped. "Katie!" Of course. "That necklace was also meant for someone else." Hermione, as always, had a good eye for finding patterns and selecting which pieces belonged to the same puzzle. They had only one criminal, and apparently he was fond of involving third parties, he realized in anger. Craven arsehole.

"And both attacks supposed to be fatal," she made him see. "Katie's necklace might have been meant for Dumbledore, too," she said ominously.

She made a very valid point, though the thought of something happening to Dumbledore made his stomach twitch in painful knots. He chased the idea out of his head; losing the only man who could guide him into how to defeat Voldemort would just be – No, better not to think about it. Instead, he focused on the would-be-murderer. He had some ideas about who it could be, but Hermione was unlikely to appreciate them.

He fidgeted once more, but in the end could not help himself. "You don't think maybe Parkinson knows something?" he asked, unable to hide suspicion from his voice. Hermione was evidently innocent, but the Slytherin wench was something else entirely. She was clearly up to something, sticking to Hermione and her new friends like a limpet.

" _Pansy_?" she exclaimed, wide-eyed, and then snorted. "No way," and then sternly added before he could insist, "Drop it." Harry frowned. There just was no way of getting through her; there had never been when she latched onto a new idea. House-elves or Dark Magic, it was all the same to Hermione: she would see to it until  _the_   _end_.

He thought there was a fairly good chance of Parkinson knowing something, if she was indeed working for Voldemort –like all evidence pointed toward. Still, saying that to Hermione was unlikely to go well, so he did as she asked. After all, he had just wanted to let her know Ron was in the hospital.

"Tell me if Ron gets worse?" she pleaded, and he nodded. "Be careful, Harry. These things always find a way to happen around you." With her face so pale and the now always-present wrinkles on her forehead, she looked strangely frail as she asked. The image was unsettling.

He managed to give her a reassuring smile and pat on the arm. "You know me, I like a quiet life," he joked. Hermione laughed, but there was sadness in her voice.

He wished he could turn everything back to how it used to be. Have her and Ron around all the time, face the dangers as three. As he left the room, he already missed her. But he knew he could not speak to her normally, not as long as Parkinson was around. Not as long as she defended the usage of Dark Magic.

He shook his head. It was his fault, that Hermione had lost her way. He should have stood by her side more firmly when Ron started dating Lavender; that had been the trigger, he knew. He should have been a better friend.

* * *

Hermione clenched her fists so strongly she drew blood and smacked the stone wall viciously with both palms when the Room of Requirement did not open for her. Bloody, slimy, despicable room-stealing good-for-nothing bastard! When she got her hands on the pillock she would rake him across the coals, skin him alive and make him eat his own dirty, charred skin, the fucking –

Hermione forced herself to take a deep, calming breath.

The Room was in use, and there was nothing to do about it. Taking her frustrations out on the cold stones was unlikely to help, she logically knew that. And so was yelling at the poor first-year who had been standing in front of it. The girl had even dropped her scales in surprise.

The news of Ron's poisoning had left her with a hot, fiery  _anger_  screaming in her mind. Someone was hurting people indiscriminately –people she cared about– and she felt utterly powerless. No matter how much of a horny dog Ron was acting like, hooking up with  _Lavender_ , she did not want him poisoned. She did not want him  _dead_. Just the thought was unbearably painful.

Well, if she could not access the Room to relieve her stress then she would seek Pansy. Her mere presence usually made the whispering, insistent, hostile voice subside. Besides, she had told Harry her friend knew nothing, but she had her doubts; she might have caught on some rumour, or simply find a new perspective on the whole issue. God knew their way of looking at the world usually differed greatly. She just wanted Harry to forget the absurd idea that it was Pansy's  _fault_. Not that she would never try to off Dumbledore, but she at least was more  _competent_  than any useless twit who thought Slughorn reliable.

Following the persistent pull on her soul that always pushed them together, she was led to Pansy, who was working together with Tracey in the Astronomy Tower. The two had gotten special permission from Professor Sinistra to check the tracking spells on their telescope using Venus, which was already visible in the late afternoon. Hermione briefly regretted having been forced to drop the subject as she regarded the two, but knew she was already taking too many.

Tracey heard her arrive first, and she must have seen the urgency in her rushed steps, because just as she turned she told Pansy, "Just go. Vicky will be up here soon; we can manage with just the two of us."

Pansy hesitated, but Hermione knew she could feel her urgency, and she gave in as expected. "Don't let her set any numbers.  _Especially_  if she insists something should be seven," she warned Tracey, who laughed. "I'll be back in a minute."

Hermione rushed Pansy down the stairs as the girl complained about her pushing –and about everything ranging from the pattern on her barely visible socks to her interruption– until they stopped mid-tower, casting a  _muffiato_  to keep their conversation private, and ducking into a shadowy alcove. She doubted Tracey would follow them, as she did not look the type to be interested in gathering juicy gossip. Besides, she had heard her criticize Daphne Greengrass for her nosiness more than once.

"What happened?" asked Pansy once they had privacy, always direct and to the point. She probably remembered the last time Hermione had gone out of her way to find her; the news that Dumbledore had caught them had not been  _happy_  ones.

"It's Ron," Hermione told her after taking a deep breath. "He was poisoned."

Pansy blinked a few times, disconcerted. "Am I supposed to cry or something?"

Hermione huffed, irritated, "No, I didn't expect you to," she admitted. There were few people Pansy cared about in this world, and if there was only one Gryffindor amongst them Hermione would count herself lucky. "But I thought you'd at least be curious."

She was. Her eyes shone brightly as she scooted closer, sniffing bigger news. Hermione recounted Harry's story, as well as her suspicions. After she finished, Pansy smirked and goaded her, "Pity he's still alive." Hermione hit her arm, and received a push back.

Pansy laughed, and then pulled her closer and re-casted the  _muffiato_ , for good measure. Garcia went by, focused on counting steps even though she probably already knew how many there were by heart. Pansy peeked after her to reassure herself no one else was skulking in the shadows, and then went, "I know who it was, that almost killed the Bell girl."

"Pansy!" she could not help but scream. Was she even – How had she not – Hermione took yet another calming deep breath. She could not believe Pansy had hid from everyone she knew who had attempted  _murder_. How had she kept the secret from the authorities – from  _her_? Seeing the easily recognisable look of righteous indignation in her eyes, Pansy kindly reminded her about the whole 'keeping quiet about the book' issue, and Hermione sulkily shut up. "So, who was it?" she finally asked. Who was the enemy within their own walls?

" _Draco_ ," she whispered near her ear, and at her gasp, added, "I saw him  _imperius_  Madam Rosmerta."

Hermione could almost feel the world coming to a halt all around her. The rational part within her, which got smaller every day under the unyielding pressure that was her magic  _yearning_ , let out one last chirp before being extinguished into a wisp of smoke. Her ethical principles and implacable logic were lost under the sound of her mind roaring  _Draco_. And like an echo, it reverberated within her head until the name itself turned into a cacophony of blurred sounds; still the meaning never lost.  _Draco_.  _Draco. DRACO_.

"I didn't know who it was meant for, the necklace. But if Potter tells the truth, then Draco's  _mission_  must be to kill Dumbledore!" Pansy went on, excited with the discovery. "He'd been hinting at an important errand from the Dark Lord, you know? But, oh, to think it was such a – The poor  _fool_!" she laughed,  _cackled_ , crazily. When she regarded her again, a pleased viciousness danced in her eyes, "It must be a  _punishment_. The thick-witted twat thought he was important! 'Pansy, get out of my way, you women just can't understand'," she mimicked mockingly. "But I  _told_  him, Granger. I told him that if  _You-Know-Who_  was displeased with Lucius, then there was  _no way_  this was meant to be a reward! I told him he was acting like a  _blind_  idiot!" she roughly whispered, now furious.

"And then he  _struck_  you," she guessed.  _Draco_. Pansy's expression went sombre.

Hermione could feel her anger, now familiar instead of sharp and surprising like it had once been, swirl and stir within her. Pansy had only been concerned for her old friend – _Draco_ –, and the egotistical, wicked bastard – _Draco_ – had not cared back one bit. The Death-Eater – _Draco_ –, even if barely more than child, had hit  _her_   _Pansy_. Hermione could feel her own fists clenching and her breathing become laboured. Her rage awoke fully, dark and dense and heavy as it seeped out and met Pansy's. Their fury resonated within the narrow staircase, engulfing their whole beings within a madness of wrath, painting their thoughts black.

_Draco_.

It was the name, she realized as her rationality gave up and joined in instead of opposing her innermost desires. The feeling, the intensity, it overtook her with regained force because now there was a  _focus_  for it. Now there was  _Draco_.

And she didn't need words to know that Pansy was thinking exactly the same thing.

* * *

Hermione had once thought herself incapable of murder. She was not stupidly naïve either; and after battling for her life while trying to escape the Department of Mysteries she had realized that anyone could cast a spell that resulted in an opponent falling badly. She had understood that one day she might cause somebody's death. But that was not  _murder_. Murder, she thought, was sitting in the Gryffindor Common Room with an open Charms textbook on her lap and planning when and how to catch Draco Malfoy.

A couple of fifth years passed her by, openly looking disapproving. It was always the older students who cared; the ones who could read war within the current political climate. Usually, ignoring them came easily to her, but today a cold sweat gathered at the base of her nape and made her shiver. They did not know, she reminded herself. If she planned it properly, nobody would.

Paranoia, she had discovered, was a worse feeling than guilt.

She woke up most days having dreamed of Malfoy's hands tinted red with Pansy's blood, and her mind screaming his name in vicious fury. She had needed to flood her bed with silencing spells, lest her roommates heard her yell the name of a soon-to-die man.

Other days it was Ron who laid at Malfoy's feet in her nightmares. Those days, Katie was always present, body sprawled on the ground a few feet back as  _Draco_  Malfoy smirked down at her and kicked Ron's face with petty viciousness.

She wondered, after waking up covered in cold sweat, what Pansy dreamed. In the course of a full week, since they had taken the unspoken decision, she had never asked. She suspected Malfoy was in hers, too. He was the trigger after all, from the moment in which he had truly become a  _common enemy_.

She wondered, with clinical detachment, if this was the Dark Magic taking control of them as Harry had said it would. Poisoning their thoughts and their dreams, pushing and stoking their hatred until they finally complied. If it was, she thought, then  _sorry_   _Harry_.  _Sorry because it's already too late._

* * *

Pansy came to the sudden realization that she had led a terribly dull, average and unexciting school life. Un-chosen, she could call it, maybe. Because apparently, when you were the Chosen One, treasures dropped on your head one after the other just because you had decided to get out of bed.

First, she ran her hands on the unearthly soft material of the  _invisibility cloak_ , because of course, only Potter would have inherited an item so magical it seemed to have come out from the Three Brother's Tale itself. She settled the cloak on her lap and her lower half banished; no single misplaced shifting of light to be seen. It was  _perfect_.

Then, she took the map. Such a wonderfully useful invention! And Potter's own father had made it. She never knew he and professor Lupin, along with escaped –now apparently innocent, and also deceased– convict Sirius Black, were such talented wizards. But again, give it to the Boy-Who-Lived to be related to such a funny mix of people.

She could see that most of the student body was congregating around the Quidditch Pitch, as expected. Snape and Dumbledore, the ones they should be most careful around, were already sitting on the stands. Potter, Weasley and Madam Pomfrey were in the Infirmary. She could also spot a few students in the Library or in their Common Rooms –How had those Gryffindors mapped even the  _Slytherin_  Common Room? Sneaky bastards– but the corridors remained essentially deserted.

Draco, she saw, along with Crabbe and Goyle, was moving out of the Dungeons. He tended to disappear off to somewhere often, these days; probably burrowing into his hidey-hole to plan Dumbledore's demise. She could not help but burst out laughing, earning a sidewise glance from Hermione. It was  _hilarious_  that Draco even thought he had a chance! One of the greatest wizards of all times, who the Dark Lord himself feared to face, falling prey to a lone sixteen-year-old with daddy issues? Fat chance.

"He's moving," she told Hermione, leaving the gloating for later. They had a mission now, and could not afford to miss this chance.

Hermione nodded and grabbed the cloak, raising. "Let's trail him and wait for the best chance."

Pansy followed, hiding a flinch when her ankle hesitated. Some quick bastard had thrown a tripping hex her way chancing upon a distraction, and it had remained tender for the past couple of days. She sighed and marched on. It was not the first time someone threw a nasty in her direction, and it was unlikely to be the last. Her housemates were not pleased with her open display of allegiances. No one had dared confront her face to face once more –much less with Tracey tagging along– but they took advantage of the shadows. She sighed. At least, for the moment, she had succeeded in keeping her injury hidden from Hermione. She did not want to be coddled; or worse, forced to practice even harder. After so much conditioning, she was pretty sure she was casting shielding charms in her sleep.

They huddled together under the cloak, big enough to cover them since they were not tall –Granger particularly. She figured two boys would need to be extra careful to not let a foot peek underneath.

They followed the map until they found Draco speaking to Potter –two roosters in a hen pen, like always– and waited pressed against the wall. The sight of his blond head made her nerves tingle and her skin warm, but not in the giggly, silly way it had years ago. The slow rumbling of magic within her resembled a dark, vicious kind of lust. She wanted him. They –she remembered, when Hermione clasped her hand with bone-shattering strength– wanted him. Only the hold they had on each other anchored them enough to reality to avoid jumping into action. Since the day the boy's name had echoed within their minds, they had needed this. They had waited far too long.

Pansy forced herself to focus, and glanced down to monitor their surroundings. The map said Crabbe and Goyle were escorting their soon-to-be victim, but she could only see two young girls in front of her. Granger's eyes shone and she whispered "polyjuice". Pansy supposed that whatever Draco was doing, he was taking it seriously enough.

They went after the Slytherin boys as Potter stood rooted on the spot and watched them disappear. Their blood boiled –she swore she could  _hear_  Hermione's flow fast, right under her skin– as they hunted their oblivious foe. Each step felt more exhilarating, each second passed increased their impatience.

They went up and up flights of stairs, holding the cloak carefully in order not to step on it, while trying to keep all their extremities hidden. Pansy had the fleeting thought that she really missed escalators. As they climbed up the Castle, she wondered where Draco was headed, and why on earth did he need to get so high up for whatever he was planning. Hermione's sudden gasp drew her attention.

"The Room," she only told her, but she understood because they were just nearing the seventh floor. Of course. Of course he was heading there. Of course, she now understood, the Room was always occupied.

Hermione rushed her, almost running now since Draco was walking briskly on fairly longer legs, and she whispered "If he goes in, we're screwed, Pansy."

They had counted on Draco's hiding hole being an enclosed space; a barely used room, maybe. There were plenty around, after all. The plan was simple, but sound. Get in the room right behind them, lock it non-verbally, attack them from underneath the cloak. They could deal with two before the third one noticed, and then they would still be invisible; nice advantage. It was not an exhibition of mind-blowing strategy, but it would work.

They had certainly not considered the possibility of the room becoming inaccessible once the bastard got inside.

"We need to get them before that," Pansy said. If they had to wait for him to come out the match might be already over. That might imply Potter wondering where his map and cloak went, people crowding the corridors, a higher possibility of someone noticing their absence.

Draco turned left at the corner and was already way too close to the entrance for their tastes. As Pansy went to follow, Hermione took a step back and pushed her ahead, "Keep the cloak. I'll hide behind the corner and distract them; you get them from behind." Pansy nodded, but Hermione was already out and crouching behind the wall, and could not possibly see her.

She took the turn after them, and ran almost sticking to the opposing wall, getting herself out of the line of fire. Hermione casted the first stunner, which grazed the blond girl's hair –Crabbe or Goyle, who knew– and fired a second one almost without aiming, hurrying to duck again behind the corner.

The three turned, one of the fake girls yelping in surprise, the other fumbling with her pocket to get the wand out. Draco, face white as virgin snow, set his back to the wall and raised his wand with the barest of trembles. His attention was focused on whomever hid behind the corner, but no matter how quickly he had reacted –she had to admit,  _much faster_  than she had expected– Pansy was the true threat. Invisible, she casted with the same ease she did within the classroom; no pressure, no real battle for her. Draco dropped unconscious before he could even attempt anything against Hermione.

The shorter of the girls, who had just managed to get a firm grip on her wand –Crabbe, she guessed then; he was even slower than Goyle– let out a sharp gasp and looked straight into Pansy's direction. She was momentarily taken aback. Of course, Crabbe could not see her but her spells were not invisible. The girl –boy– threw a hex at her, something she did not recognize from her –his– mumbled small words, but which felt nasty. Her shield raised by pure reflex and only thanks to Granger's never-ending imposed practice.

The momentum of the impact forced her to step back and she flinched, dropping to one knee when she settled too much weight on her bad ankle. Crabbe's follow-up hex burned the wall above her head, but she managed a stunner from her ground position that toppled him.

"Fuckers," she cursed out loud, as Goyle fell to Hermione's last spell.

Then, as if feeling the need to be awkwardly inopportune even from a distance, Lovegood's muffled voice came through the windows, "And that's Smith of Hufflepuff with the Quaffle. He did the commentary last time, of course, and Ginny Weasley flew into him, I think probably on purpose – it looked like it. Smith was being quite rude about Gryffindor, I expected he regrets that now he's playing them – oh, look, he's lost the Quaffle, Ginny took it from him, I do like her, she's very nice…"

Pansy could not help herself but laugh. Damn all those girls that followed her around, always insisting on being anticlimactic.

* * *

Hermione looked at the two sprawled girls, thinking quickly. What was safer? They had not seen them, thankfully, so there was no need to – no need to take any  _desperate_  safety measures. She let herself relax briefly. Good, that was good. They had fought, though, so they knew  _someone_  –at least two people– had come to take Malfoy; one of which was invisible. It was more than she liked them knowing.

Pansy groaned at her right, getting rid of the cloak as she slowly raised. She seemed to be limping slightly, and Hemione frowned. They had  _hurt_  Pansy. She took a deep breath, pushing down the vicious darkness within her head that urged her to make them  _pay_. No, there was no need. Their thirst would quench with only Malfoy.

The other two, though… Obliviation, maybe? But any good legilimens –Dumbledore, Voldemort– could break through that with a little patience… Maybe nobody would try? Maybe she could convince the boys to believe they had been pushed away by Malfoy, sent somewhere else. If they were questioned afterwards, that's what they would answer. Why would anyone think to delve deeper, to try and crack their little brains open?

Or… No – wait. She could tweak their memories, confound them, make them believe  _Malfoy_  had attacked them. If Dumbledore asked, they would lie. The man could make of the lies whatever he desired; she could not care less. If Voldemort asked, he might think Malfoy a deserter, and pursue him instead of anyone else –meaning, her and Pansy. If anyone pressed them with heavy legilimence, then it did not matter  _how_  Hermione tweaked their minds in the first place; they would find out the truth but still –hopefully– not link it to them.

Yes, she liked this idea more. ' _Let them lie to Dumbledore knowingly and let the man know they are lying'_ , she thought with a smirk. Hermione knew first-hand how erroneous Dumbledore's conclusions could end up being.

She altered their memories with care and a touch of confusion, so that their minds woke up foggy. Pansy joined her, eyes wide open and hungry as she stared at their unconscious forms. She knew –felt– what she wanted, but Hermione shook her head and asked her to hold back. They had Malfoy – _Draco, Draco, Draco!_  Her mind spun and jumped and she enjoyed the feel of his sweet name rolling near the tip of her tongue– and they needed no one else.

Together, they levitated one unconscious boy each through the holes between the complex web of moving staircases until dropping them on the second floor. Barely able to see them, Hermione whispered " _rennervate!_ " and left them to make what they could of their situation. Foggy, obliviated minds always filled their own voids in the most convincing of ways.

They entered the Room of Requirements, Malfoy's limp body floating gracelessly behind them, and she could feel her blood boil and her magic dance in breath-taking anticipation. She licked her lips as the door closed behind them, isolating them from the rest of the world, the sound of Luna's fluid, dreamy voice accompanying them in the distance.

* * *

Draco dreamed of his mother's blond hair sprawled in a puddle of blood, flowing red and dark until meeting the fine boots of that man –monster– he dared not look in the eye. He  _despised_  him, the half-snake hybrid that had taken his house as a nest and filled it with filthy brutes, sadistic lunatics and dark horrors. He had once thought it an honour, serving under him, until a Christmas visit had shown him that he liked his people bleeding at his feet.

His mother's voice still whispered a pleading  _Draco_  as he slowly came to, awaking on the cold stone floor of an unknown room. The only light was given by a circle of low, flickering candles lighted all around him, and never reached the eerily high ceiling, which was lost within the darkness.

He could not move a single muscle despite not being tied –he could feel his arms at his sides, and the coldness of stone against his open palms– and he supposed he was under a  _petrificus_. He was stuck facing the ceiling, barely seeing the shimmering flames through the corner of his eyes, and unable to turn toward the sound of someone stepping closer.

"Are you actually trying to  _invent_  some sort of ritual?" He recognized Grangers' stiff, condescending voice and the clipped edge it acquired when she was lecturing someone. What was she doing there? Why could he not move? What the hell was going on?

"I'll have you know," answered  _Pansy_ , of all people, in the prim and haughty voice she got when she wanted to be annoying, "that this all is fully documented in  _The Book_."

He had guessed something was wrong from the moment he awoke immobilized, but Pansy being there –and with her new, mudblood friend– pointed toward a disastrous situation.  _Ritual_ , Granger had said. He was –he realized as his heart-rate sped up– in the centre of a bloody ritual circle.

"Oh, really?" Granger scoffed, sounding disbelieving. "Where exactly are this point-by-point instructions that I missed?"

" _Everywhere_ , Granger. You're just not going to find a neat, colour-coded list, Circe's sake! You need to read with an open mind, appreciate the metaphors," she half-scolded, her high timbre grating as always. He could see their silhouettes as they neared each other. "See here, 'The flickering of a suffering soul' and then down here 'the circle of life.' We are representing those with the candles." He would have held his breath –if he could control his diaphragm– at the mention of a  _suffering soul_. "And then the 'path to the other world' with this never-ending ceiling." The  _other world_ , she said?

"So," Granger concluded, "you  _are_  making up a ritual."

Pansy huffed in indignation. "I'm delivering  _intent_ , Granger, which is what a ritual is all about."

He felt himself panicking and yet completely unable to display it in any form; not a shiver, nor a twitch nor a single sign of struggle, trapped within his own body. He knew Pansy was mad at him –and he had not cared much, the thought of his mission always prevalent– but he could have never guessed she would… He dared not put his fears into words.

"Did you also compose a chant, perhaps?" Granger teased, and got hit on her arm for the trouble.

"You and your unimaginative,  _literal_  self are lucky to have me," Pansy retorted, and got close enough to peer at his still form from above.

Granger joined her on the opposite side of his body and noted, "He's awake," as she stared straight into his eyes.

He moved his pupils around as fast as he could, a silent cry for help, but as Pansy flippantly answered, "Good. Else, he can't die in agony," he felt his heart drop and his stomach twist painfully.  _Fear_ , he recognized easily. He was used to it.

He looked at her, truly looked, locked eyes with hers for the first time since the start of the school year, and the hot desire he saw in them as she slowly smirked froze his blood.

"Did you bring your ridiculously flamboyant knife?" Granger asked, and his lungs constricted, making him feel faint. He looked from one girl to the other, but they were busy talking among themselves. He was just a  _thing_  there, he realized, a necessary yet impersonal element for their ritual; the candles, the knife, Draco.

Right above his head, the girls held hands and Granger took an ornate blade and very slowly cut Pansy's palm. A fat drop of blood fell and he felt it, wet against his cheek, as his eyes went wide. Pansy's sudden intake of air sounded more enraptured than pained and Granger stared at her bleeding hand with hunger. Pansy returned the favour, as blood trickled down her arm and slowly painted his face red, drop by drop.

Granger gasped, a hoarse cry escaping her lips as Pansy dropped the blade, and she bent down to fasten her open mouth on the cut on Pansy's hand. Pansy let her head fall back and moaned breathily, and then laughed as she sprung back and she took Granger's arm, slowly licking a trail of blood all the way from her bare elbow to the palm of her hand.

They both cried as the blood they failed to catch with their lips fell onto him, more frantic, louder, whimpering and wailing and devouring each other as a dark, buzzing, thick sort of magic settled on the air around them. The feel of that humming energy was intoxicating, and not even the savage sight of their lips painted in blood –splashes on their cheeks, red dripping down their chins– could completely stifle the awakening, morbid arousal Dark Magic was forcing on him.

The candlelight glimmered and burst into short, intense flames and they kissed, their hands lost in mussed hair, painting each other red. And then suddenly he felt a sharp, deep  _burn_  right under his stomach. The pain was momentarily blinding, all his nerves on fire, as if a bludger had sunk itself against his gut. When he lowered his eyes and saw Pansy's red hands firmly holding the jewelled handle against his abdomen he understood that this time the wetness was his own blood. It throbbed, it burned, it was a searing pain like nothing he had ever felt before; more real and more focused than that of the  _cruciatus_  aunt Bella had once used on him.

And then came the agony.

The girls cried and laughed in exhilarated bliss, magic swirling all around them as he bled out at their feet and they painted each other in his redness; and he thought it was ironic that his fate was as he feared, but the people in this nightmare were so unexpected.

Pansy cackled and swished her arms and the candles roared, painting the walls in dancing shadows, but never reaching the ceiling. Granger kneeled at his side and whispered nonsense as unnatural bursts of wind made her hair jump around wildly, her eyes facing upwards.

He, too, looked up toward the never-ending darkness as he felt his body grow colder. Despite the body-bind, he knew he was trembling, blood-loss and pain making him dizzy. As he felt Death creep nearer his last coherent thought was for his mother, and he wished fervently that the Dark Lord did not kill her for his failure. His vision grew dim and right before it went pitch black, he thought he saw the fiery red eyes of a woman stare at him from within abyss that was the ceiling.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for reading and your support! I'm sorry I can't update as frequently as before, but I'll try my best.
> 
> Thanks as always to Gremlin Jack for betaing!


	15. Pawn

**Coven. Ch. 15: Pawn**

Severus dropped his heavy robes and took off his cufflinks –a lavish present from Lucius that he could never have afforded on his own– finally allowing himself to relax on his desk chair. The Quidditch match had been a dreadful bore. What to expect, when Slytherin was not even playing? A few minutes of diversion, found solely in watching Minerva twitch after each of Lovegood's comments. Honestly, no matter how much Filius insisted Ravenclaws were long overdue their turn to give commentary, no sane person would have allowed that daft child near a megaphone.

His minute amusement, however, had been short-lived.  _Potter_ , of course, obnoxious, foolish, brattish, thorn on his side, had found it opportune to –once more– ruin the day. In an impressive display of utter lack of survival instinct, he had almost encountered Death yet again. He had managed –because only Potter could, of course, manage such ludicrousness– to almost get himself killed by a  _bludger_. Thrown by a  _keeper_. Who happened to be his own  _teammate_. The brat had even cracked his bloody skull. His  _skull_ , for Merlin's sake.

Severus shook his head. He could admit he had enjoyed the sport when he could rub Slytherin's wins in Minerva's stern face, but if it resulted in Potter's premature death then he saw no point in continuing to have the children play  _murderball_.

He threw a sideways glance toward the tall pile of unmarked essays looming over his desk, threatening to come tumbling down. He sighed, feeling older than anyone his age should. Through the corner of his eye, he could already see Miss Granger's insufferably long roll of parchment, and he summoned himself a glass of firewhisky at the thought of her precise, nitpicky prose.

As he brought the glass to his lips, a sudden flash of pain on his left hand startled him. The glass fell to the ground with a loud crash, and he swore. Three thin tongues of flame, bright against the pale skin of his hand, burned in a sizzling sound. He stood with apprehension, recognizing them as the marks of the unbreakable bow that tied him to Narcissa.

He did not lose a single second panicking, for he was much too used to the unexpected to waste more time than necessary. Drawing his wand, he casted the tracking spell he had long ago locked on Draco. The familiar bright, white light shone at the tip of his wand and then dimmed without result. Severus frowned, dreading the meaning of that failure. He casted again, and then a third time before accepting the painfully obvious: it was not working.

He had matched the spell to Draco, and had checked it functioned as intended. Twice. There was only a single instance in which the spell was supposed to fail; when there was no subject to be tracked. Draco had either found a way around his spell –which would indeed be remarkable, and quite frankly above what he expected from the boy– or he was in a place so heavily warded it was unplottable; for example, under a  _fidelius_.

Of course, death was another possible explanation. However, the burning tongues charring his skin meant the bond was  _straining_  and not yet void; Draco had to be alive.

He recalled Narcissa's words as she demanded: "Will you, Severus, watch over my son Draco as he attempts to fulfil the Dark Lord's wishes?" and then, "Will you, to the best of your ability, protect him from harm?"

He had fulfilled them both; and it must be the second pushing him to  _move_  right now, and find Draco to keep him out of harm's way. The foolish boy, who had declined his help time and time again, was now in danger.  _"How utterly unexpected_ ," he thought bitterly. His life had somehow become a senseless series of snippets of him risking his own neck to protect suicidal teenage boys.

He threw on his cloak and rushed out of the room, heading for Dumbledore's office. The boy should not have been able to leave Hogwarts without the headmaster noticing; and the man had ways of finding people that were known only by himself.

His hand throbbed painfully and he wondered if he had time, if he would make it and save the person he had sworn to protect this time around. He passed the gargoyle and climbed the circular staircase, entering the room without bothering to knock.

Albus raised his head, looking old and tired as he had since the day after putting on that bloody cursed ring for no obvious logical reason. "Severus," he said, as if pleased to see him despite it being already late, and his visit unexpected, "why the rush, my boy?"

He shoved his hand under Albus' nose, and just snapped, "I can't find him." He cared not how surly he came off as; the old man knew him well enough already.

Albus was, as always, unruffled by the sudden emergency. He stood and nodded slowly as he moved toward one of his uncommon, mysterious silver devices –the one with the multiple needles that whirled up and down as they whizzed– and lifted it on his palm. "I'm afraid, Severus," he said after a few agonizing seconds, the burning in his hand sending flashes of pain up his arm, "that I cannot find Mr Malfoy either."

Severus dropped on the chair like dead weight, head between his palms, his hand glowing brighter and brighter, and ignored the pain. He had much practice in that domain. "You never told me he'd left the grounds!" He tried to keep the bitter tone of accusation from his voice, but something about sitting in that office made him revert to the volatile, hostile boy he had once been.

"And I would have, had I known, Severus," he assured him. "But if he did, then it was through means that escaped my notice."

Severus' head snapped up, "Escaped your notice?" his mouth twisted, "How is that possible?"

"It shouldn't be," Albus admitted, still infuriatingly calm. "But I doubt anyone can hide from the Headmaster within the school grounds."

"There's no time left, Albus!" He yelled, standing up once more, "He's  _dying_!"

He had to do something.  _Anything_. He had been honest with Narcissa; he did not wish for the boy's death. He could not bear another stain, another weight against his conscience. Draco was the boy he had chosen to protect, not because of Lily's ghost –her green eyes, now on  _his_  face, always haunting him– nor the chains that tied him both to Albus and the Dark Lord; but because he was still allowed the freedom to make that little choice. Draco,  _his_  godson.

"Severus, I'm afr– Severus!"

Albus dropped to his knees when he fell in agony, the flaming chains drawn on his skin burning until he saw white, until he feared he would have to rip his hand off in order to make it stop. And then, as suddenly as it had come, it vanished.

Only one out of three vows remained.

' _And, should it prove necessary… if it seems Draco will fail… will you carry out the deed that the Dark Lord has ordered Draco to perform?'_

* * *

Hermione sat alone on one of the patched, comfortable couches of their Common Room. The fire crackled, shifting and making shadows dance on her face. In front of her, on a short table that sat between the couches and the fireplace, was a lone chess board. She recognized the pieces as Ron's old, worn ones. He must have been playing Seamus again, judging by their current positions; they were both careful and inventive players.

She found herself relax, staring at the board. She had never been a good player, to be honest, but had always enjoyed watching the game and had been able to follow the plays. Frankly, she thought it much more entertaining than Quidditch.

She charmed the pieces to stay still, reached out to take a black pawn, and played with it between her fingers.

Now that she had washed off Malfoy's blood from her skin she could more easily appreciate the newly acquired feeling of  _comfort_. For once, it did not even matter that Pansy had returned to the dungeons, because she also remained  _within her_. Their hearts beat together as one; their magic, their very souls had beautifully merged into one single entity. She breathed in and she smelled Pansy. It was all she could had ever wished for.

Perhaps, as Harry said –Dumbledore's words in his lips– she had been seduced by something so terribly dark she could no longer see its horrors. Perhaps not. Perhaps Harry just needed to understand, to feel for one single second the absolute bliss that was belonging to something bigger than oneself.

The black pawn floated above her hand at her whim, twirling as she moved her fingers.

It was surprising, she reflected, how clear her mind was. Perhaps clearer than it had been in months. As her and Pansy's spiralling down into the madness of the ritual had been a slow, gradual process, she had never noticed. But now, after finally bonding, it was obvious. It felt like sobering up in an instant after a night of abandoned drinking. The lucidity was as shocking as a slap of cold water.

She had been thinking for hours. Thinking and thinking and thinking about everything that had happened. How easy it was to think, now that the buzzing noise in the back of her mind had finally subsided.

She felt the need to be critical with herself. She had been way too preoccupied about small-scale occurrences when she should have been looking at the bigger picture. She had worried about Dumbledore discovering them, about the Order and her parents, about Harry and Ron's friendship, about Malfoy's half-assed attempts at murder… But all of those small, little things were connected. They were part of a bigger web – No, a  _game_.

Dumbledore, she thought, was playing  _chess_  and Harry was his king, to be protected at all costs. Voldemort was both his opponent and the black king himself; the enemy to defeat. Immersed in a game they had been playing for  _decades_ , they could see nothing but each other. They moved their pieces slowly but deliberately, and as she recalled all past events she noticed that the war was not upon them; it had already started.

Maybe the streets were not filled with people openly cursing each other, but war could be subtler than that. The two sides already had pieces moving swiftly: now I take your pawn, now I kill your horse, now I threaten check-mate.

She stood, smirked, and slipped Seamus' black pawn into her pocket.

You can always account for the other player to snatch your pieces away –sometimes it is even in your own interest– but how confusing is it, when you take a second look at the board, and pieces have gone missing during your own turn?

She retired to her bedroom, still playing with the pocketed pawn, humming a catchy tune she had once heard peeves sing.

Chess, she decided, was not a game she enjoyed playing. If she could choose, she would rather try something else. However, if she intended to play, she would need pieces. Not pawns and horses and bishops, though. Her board would be filled with  _queens_.

* * *

Albus let the door close after Gregory Goyle, sighing deeply as he beckoned Severus to come out of the shadows.

"They're lying," Severus said, tense as a thread ready to snap. He just nodded.

Yes, lies, that much was easy to tell. He had tried to read the simple boys' memories; easy to enter their heads, but their thoughts so murky… He was reminded –with a pang of nostalgia that smelled just like summer– of how methodically organized Gellert's mind had been.  _Beautiful_ , like all in him.

"I believe Mr Malfoy might have deserted, Severus," he informed him, returning to the present conversation.

He was not sure, though. Young Crabbe's mind was like the back-garden of a man afflicted with a hoarding disorder, and young Goyle's a confusing cacophony of disorganized, random ideas –most of which made him think it was indeed good that the girl's dormitories were inaccessible for boys. People believed simple minds were easy to read, but it was the opposite; they worked so very differently from his own, he could not find his way through their threads of thought.

"Deserted?  _Draco_? Impossible!" Severus shook his head with vehemence. "The Dark Lord holds Narcissa hostage, Albus."

He sighed. "Did you not say the boy was becoming  _desperate_? Fear has a way to overcome even the noblest of intentions, Severus."

"Draco feared for Narcissa more than he did for himself." Severus had a good eye for people's true intentions, and an analytical mind that was rarely given to romanticized imagination. However, the boy was his own godson; he might be as biased as he was when dealing with Harry. "What did you actually see within their insect-sized brains?"

"Mr Malfoy turned on them," he said. "I did not see them retaliate, though."

Severus snorted. "Those two could not duel Draco and hope to win. Someone else did this, Albus." He agreed. The two could not hide murder from him, especially when he explicitly asked about Draco Malfoy's whereabouts. They truly did not know. Severus hesitated, and then shared his suspicions, "The Dark Lord is not a patient man. Much less since his return… He – His mind lacks its previous stability."

"You believe he might have tired of waiting for Draco to report progress," it was not a question, but Severus still nodded. "It's a very plausible explanation." That, or he had tried to desert, and Tom had gotten wind of it through his two lackeys. In any way, the end result was the same.

"I'll pry open their heads," Severus said. He could see his agitation; the usual tight control on his darkest magic slipping. "Whatever happened between them first, I'll trample their little brains and squeeze the truth of it out."

"A bold move, Severus," he reminded him. And one he was afraid he disapproved of, for obvious ethical reasons. "And impossible to accomplish without breaking their minds. Need I remind you that we cannot afford to have two students enter the Janus Thickey Ward right after another goes missing?"

Severus cursed lengthily. "The sodding  _Ministry_ , our biggest impediment! We're fighting against too many, Albus. And we're only supported by your little Order and a bunch of children as smart as bait."

"Please, Severus, let's keep our focus on the problem at hand." He understood his distress, but complaining about the Ministry had never –in his vast experience– helped. "Either there is an unsupervised way to exit Hogwarts without our knowledge; or Mr Malfoy was murdered within the school."

Severus scoffed at the idea. "Within? By whom, then? And how did they avoid our tracking spells?"

"I'm afraid I cannot answer any of our questions at the moment, Severus. But portraits on the walls are plentiful, and usually eager to help. I shall ask if someone saw Mr Malfoy yesterday afternoon."

Severus nodded, then breathed out, looking uncharacteristically fragile. "I must go now, Albus."

" _He_  is calling?" he asked, surprised. It was early in the day for that, but Severus looked tense enough.

He laughed humourlessly, a sound so broken it hurt his soul. "No. I owe Narcissa the deference of at least telling her the news myself."

* * *

Pansy gave herself the luxury of oversleeping on that Sunday morning. After all, she did not really need anything that existed outside of her bedsheets; Hermione was there –within her soul– at all times.

She could feel her magic, her essence, and this time she knew it also belonged to her. They were bonded, tied, merged forever – no one would ever pry them apart without breaking their very essence. She stretched her arms and their mixed energies tingled and tickled when travelling from arm to forearm and she laughed.

With a wicked turn of thought, she told herself she had always known Draco would be the man to make her happy.

The ritual had been exquisite; a blur of passion, pleasure and pure dark magic. She still recalled the warm feel of Draco's blood on her hands –and her arms, and her face, and her everything–, and the  _rush_  when his life had been extinguished between herself and Hermione. That power, pure raw energy, that had almost made her skin burst, her muscles rip and her eyes come out of their sockets.  _Otherworldly_  was the only way to describe it.

She turned, pulled the blankets over her head and got comfortable again, letting the buzz within her veins lull her to sleep. The sound of decided steps, however, was a distraction.

Tracey pushed open the curtains and, one hand on her hip, scolded, "You gonna stay here rolling on your own sweat all day?" The girl had the annoying habit of leaving the warmth of her duvet as soon as the death of the night could be considered –only by confused minds, surely– early morning.

"I don't sweat," Pansy complained, still half-asleep, "I pour out  _parfum_ , Davies."

Tracey snorted and pulled her sheets, "You better pour out ink and help write our damn Astronomy essay. I don't even know where to start, and it's due tomorrow evening."

Pansy groaned, reluctantly obeying if only because hunger was starting to win over her state of absolute relaxation. Curiously enough, it wasn't as intense as the extreme craving for anything food that used to overtake her after a ritual. "Let Garcia do that 'Arithmancy applied to Astronomy' project she's been insisting on for forever. She'll have it finished within the hour."

"And no one but her will understand it," said Tracey. "We better be there to help her translate her thoughts into human speech. C'mon, move it."

Pansy glared, which was ineffectual when accompanied with her sleepy face, and dressed quickly to follow Tracey down to lunch.

Jones waved at them from the Hufflepuff table, where she sat with Lovegood and Garcia, because out of the four options it was where they got the fewer mean looks. Because, of course,  _Hufflepuffs_. Even McMillan was getting tired of glaring in their general direction.

"Where's Hermione?" Tracey asked, and Pansy had to stop herself from absentmindedly answering. She, of course, knew exactly where she was. But as she had just been sleeping, by common standards she probably should not.

"Hospital Wing," Lovegood answered. "She's visiting Harry."

"Potter?" Tracey asked with disgust, "Why? 'Cause he almost split his head open in yesterday's match?"

Damn, the only day something remotely interesting happened in the Quidditch pitch and she fucking missed it.

"You can't blame her for caring," said  _Madame Huffles_ , "they've been good friends for a long time." As per usual, Jones felt the damn necessity to let them all know she had thought about everyone's feelings and was, of course, standing on the moral high ground. She probably only liked it there because she needed the extra height.

"Yes, until about the day he stopped speaking to her," Pansy reminded her icily.

"Well, Parkinson, friends fight sometimes," Jones answered with that insufferable overly-saccharine smile, "You'd probably know, if you had any."

Damned literally-little bitch. "And some people are just fucking jerks," she retorted, "which you'd probably know if you didn't live in Hufflepuff candy-land." Jones did not even  _like_  Potter, she was just being politically correct for the sake of it.

"It'd be nice, to have a common room made out of candy," Lovegood dreamily interrupted. "Where's pudding, anyway?"

"Yay, dessert!" Garcia joined.

"Oh, yes, I'm  _so_  tired of all this kidney pie," Tracey followed.

Pansy and Jones glared at each other above the noise of all the girls trying to change topic. Well, two of them, and Lovegood probably just honestly yearning for pudding.

* * *

Hermione was honestly glad she had caught Ron sleeping when visiting the Infirmary. They had not spoken again since the whole Lavender debacle –which, together with the Dark Arts debacle, might make for one impressive row– and she wished it to remain that way for the moment. She really did not need them joining forces against her.

"How are you?" she asked in a rush, making Harry jolt in his bed. "What happened? Did someone try to–"

"Relax, Hermione," Harry shushed her. "McLaggen happened, is all." At her confused face, he added with a grimace, "The bloody idiot was trying to teach Peakes how to bat, and cracked my skull with a bludger."

Hermione let out a half-laugh, half-sigh of relief and sat on a nearby chair, exhausted. Waking up to the news of Harry on the Infirmary after last night's excitement had made her heart jump out of her chest. Good, that it had been nothing in the end.

"I thought it might have been a repeat of the Quirrell thing first year," she confessed. After Ron's attempted poisoning, and knowing of Malfoy's mission, she did not trust Hogwart's supposed safety one bit.

Harry laughed. "I'm fine," he reassured her. "Skull un-cracked and everything."

Harry seemed relaxed enough around her, and she wondered if he was starting to try to understand her –to distrust Dumbledore– or if he just simply enjoyed the rare chance to ignore the problem. She briefly wondered if she should press the issue, try to get him to reach a more permanent sort of peace with her, or if she should just go for oblivious enjoyment as well.

Before she had a chance to decide, though, a loud  _crack_  made her jump and unsheathe her wand.

"Kreacher!" Harry said, more pleased than surprised, which was already weird in itself. And then, "Dobby!"

Realizing she was tense, and trembling, she lowered her wand and willed herself to relax. Perhaps the  _paranoia_  that came with planning murder made her a little bit jumpy.

"Master said he wanted regular reports about what the Malfoy boy is doing, but Kreacher –" the old elf started, bowing low and addressing his own toes.

"Dobby tried to help too, Harry Potter!" he squeaked.

Hermione felt her blood freeze in her own veins and held her breath at Kreacher's words. The air in the room turned stale, cold and unwelcome. Regular reports on Malfoy, he had said. She was not quite sure what that meant, but years of awful coincidences had her fearing the worst. She grabbed the wand she had almost pocketed with renewed strength, tensed and readied herself for an obliviate. Harry and two elves, though, might be too much for her; empowered or not.

"And you already found out where he's going?" Harry asked eagerly, forgetting all about her being present.

"Kreacher has not found out where Master Malfoy has been going, because Master Malfoy has not been going," he answered.

Harry frowned, but Dobby interrupted, "Harry Potter, sir, the Malfoy boy is not in the school, sir. Dobby and Kreacher can't find him, so Dobby and Kreacher thought they should report."

Hermione allowed herself a brief glimmer of hope, but did not risk relaxing just yet.

"What do you mean, he's not in the school?" Harry insisted.

"Master does not understand simple English, he does not. Kreacher is ashamed to have such a Master, yes–"

"Dobby?" Harry interrupted him, piqued and impatient.

"Gone, Harry Potter, sir. The Malfoy boy is gone," he confirmed, his large, bulgy eyes glinting in the afternoon light. "But Dobby asked the other elves if they had seen the Malfoy boy before, and Hokey, and Pickey, and Ruffs, and Bulgy, and–"

"Yes, yes, Dobby, I get it. What did they say?" Harry rushed him.

"They can't find the boy, Harry Potter, sir. But they can tell Dobby he has been seen often, away from the Dungeons, up on the seventh floor, with a variety of students who keep watch as he enters–"

"The Room of Requirement!" Harry exclaimed, and almost jumped out of bed. "Hermione, of course! He must've been–"

"Harry, what's going on?" she interrupted, her stomach in knots, needing to know exactly what the elves had seen before taking any drastic action. "You had Dobby and Kreacher track Malfoy?"

Harry nodded, "Yes, since yesterday evening, after the Quidditch match. You see, Malfoy has–"

Hermione stopped listening as a wave of absolute relief overflowed her. Thank fucking goodness.  _After_  the match! She had never been religious, but events such as this sometimes made her almost reconsider.

Of course the elves could not find Malfoy, he had already died by then. She and Pansy had dodged the biggest bullet they could have possibly imagined. If they had waited just another day, Dobby and Kreacher would have seen them attack Malfoy, and she would have never even realized. She had never even considered the possibility, stopped to account for non-human witnesses. In a castle full of elves and portraits – Oh, goodness, were there portraits in the corridor? She thought not. She hoped not. Their eagerness, their uncontrollable need to be bonded had made them unforgivingly reckless. She promised herself it would not happen again.

"What do you think?" Harry asked, and she was startled back into reality.

She wavered. What to say? She disliked lying to Harry, but she obviously could not tell the truth; or anything resembling it.

"I think you're right, Malfoy must have been using the Room," she agreed first. Harry liked being told he had been right all along. He predictably preened. "You think he might be inside still? Since yesterday? Maybe that's why Dobby and Kreacher can't find him," she suggested.

She did not like how Dobby and Kreacher's mission helped get the timeline of events right. If Harry told Dumbledore –and he would when Malfoy never appeared again– they would know the moment before which he had inevitably gone missing.

"The mudblood thinks herself so smart, oh, if Kreacher's poor mistress knew, how master is listening to such–"

"Shut up, Kreacher!" Harry said, and the elf's mouth was forced shut, making him gag and thrash a little. "Dobby, what do you think?"

"If the Malfoy boy was inside Hogwarts, the elves could tell, Harry Potter, sir. The elves can always tell," he nodded very seriously, his long, pointy ears hopping up and down.

Hermione cursed their special brand of magic.

"So, he's gone," Harry marvelled. "How did he get out? The secret passages are all under surveillance."

Hermione shrugged and Harry frowned more heavily.

"Kreacher, Dobby, I want you to take turns and guard the entrance to the Room of Requirements. Tell me if he comes back, and tell me if anyone else tries to get in." He turned to Hermione, then. "Crabbe and Goyle may be helping him, whatever he's doing in there."

Hermione bit her lower lip and cursed the loss of the only Room in which she and Pansy could meet in true secret. Damn Harry and his thrice-damned intuition. Honestly, she was still  _sweating_  from the conversation; and her heart was beating so loudly she feared Dobby's huge ears would pick-up on its tune.

Her brain whirred as she turned Harry's fantastic theories into white noise. She needed to consider all the implications of what she had just learned, and this time, act smartly in consequence.

* * *

Hermione found Luna in the third greenhouse, humming a Weird Sisters' tune to a snargaluff. She crouched by her side and observed, wondering what –if anything– was supposed to happen. Some plants liked music, Neville had told her, but most were blissfully unaware of the existence of sound. She was not sure where snargaluffs fell on that spectrum.

"Is it working?" she asked her.

"Is what working?" Luna asked, interrupting her humming.

Hermione hesitated. "Well – Whatever you're trying to achieve."

Luna laughed. "I'm trying to learn," she told her. "And I've learned a lot, I think." She relaxed her crouching stance and sat on the damp ground.

Hermione nodded, and tried to make sense of her words. Unlike a year ago, she thought it rude to dismiss her opinion entirely just for being different. However, she still found herself rarely able to understand it.

Luna must have taken pity on her confused look, because she asked, "Do you need anything?"

Hermione sighed. "Yes," she admitted. "I need a favour, and I can't think of anyone else to ask."

"Oh," Luna beamed, "it sounds like a  _secret_."

"Yes," she laughed, "it's a secret. A big one, Luna."

"No one's ever let me in on a secret," she said, and added very seriously, "are you sure you want to tell me?"

Her tone was pure and almost naïve; hopeful and yet undemanding, patient, kind, non-judging. Luna would not be offended if she changed her mind and decided she was an unreliable secret-keeper after all. It broke her heart a little, every time she alluded to how others treated her singularity. She hoped she considered their group of misfit girls her friends.

"Yes," because she was, sure. If there was anyone besides Pansy she could trust, that was Luna, who had known of her darkness from the beginning. Who had told her it felt like the air before a storm. "Can you do something for me?" Luna nodded. "It's easy enough, really. Can you go to the seventh floor corridor, and check if there are any portraits that can see the entrance to the Room of Requirements?"

If the portraits had indeed seen them at some point, Hermione would rather stay away from the place altogether.  _Criminals always come back to the crime scene_ , they said. Well, not her.

Luna nodded again. "It is easy," she conceded. "Do you want me to ask them anything? Most portraits answer."

"No," she said quickly. "No, nothing at all. Just pass by, and have a discreet look," she asked.

Luna looked at her; all big, silvery eyes, and she got the feeling she never needed legilimancy to see straight into her soul. There was little that escaped those eyes, Hermione knew. Luna must have noticed the change the previous night had suddenly brought to both her and Pansy.

"You needn't worry," Luna said. "I'm glad to be finally doing something, to be honest. You haven't asked for anything since I joined."

Hermione felt, as usual, lost within the conversation. "Excuse me, joined what?" Did Luna think she needed to do something specific in order to fully join their group of friends? That was  _awful_. If she had failed so completely to make her feel welcome, she would never forgive herself.

"I don't know," Luna admitted. "Do we have a name?" she asked. "We should probably have a name. Everybody has a name."

"Everybody?" she furrowed her brows. Now she was almost certain Luna must be swimming in an undercurrent lower than hers; as per usual.

"Well, yes," Luna turned her attention back to the plant, which had twitched as they spoke. "The Order of the Phoenix, the Death Eaters," she said, and Hermione felt her heart drop for the second time in barely half an hour. Oh goodness. "You know, group names."

Hermione searched for her next words very carefully, aware she was not so good at speaking in  _double entendres_. Which she was pretty sure they were doing –had been doing– right now. "You think we are the same? As the Order, as the Death Eaters?"

Luna pondered the question. "I think we will be," she finally answered. Hermione swallowed. Luna stood and patted the back of her robes, getting rid of the dirt. "I should go check on those portraits."

"Do you really want to join?" Hermione asked, still crouching, heart on her sleeve. Her voice shook, she knew it, but Luna's intention –Luna's approval– meant that much to her.

Luna laughed; vibrant, cheerful, bright as a summer day. "Hermione," she admonished patiently, "We've  _already_  had this conversation."

Hermione frowned, doubtful. "I'm pretty sure I'd remember that, Luna," she answered.

"Ah, yes," she agreed. "I was pretty sure, too." And she left.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the warm response to the previous chapter. I apologize for leaving you without an update for so long, especially after that. However, I've had a temporary relocation to Argentina that has taken quite a bit of my time.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and as always, thanks a lot for all follows, favs and reviews! 


	16. Pause

**Coven. Ch. 16: Pause**

Luna passed by the portrait of Lady Alberta Toothill without stopping to say hi or ask how her feud with Elfrida Clagg's portrait was going – last she had heard, poorly. In part, it was because Lady Alberta looked busy enough dealing with Sir Cadogan; but also, Hermione had asked her not to speak to them. Well, no,  _she had not_. But Luna could read between the lines – even when people did not wish for her to.

Her portrait, though, was the first she had come upon since seeing the dancing trolls. Three full corridors, and not a single portrait on their walls. That was good. Not only because Hermione clearly wished to keep whatever she had done inside the Room of Requirements a secret, but also because she generally thought there were too many. She found it rather sad; their sort of half-existence, a vestige of a consciousness forever trapped on a canvas.

She wondered if it truly was a coincidence, that patent lack of witnesses. The Room always provided what was needed, and she supposed that must generally include privacy. Luna liked to think of the Castle as a whole; and so it made sense that the corridor must be helping the room. Just like the stairs helped you get where you wished if you were nice enough to say "please."

She turned once more, having now fully circled the corridor in which the Room was, and could see the dancing trolls anew.

"Good afternoon, Headmaster," she said as she took the stairs down.

He smiled at her. "Ah, a good one indeed, Miss Lovegood," he said, as he moved in direction to Lady Alberta's.

She had rather meant it as a wish, though, because it did not seem like he was enjoying the day much. Wrakcpurts, she guessed. Or perhaps Hermione. But really, who knew?

* * *

Theodore wondered what could have happened, that warranted Snape calling up a full-house meeting. He threw a few side-glances and thought nobody looked better informed. Blaise walked up to his right side and shrugged at his questioning look.

"Potter must be up to no good again," Blaise guessed. Theo admitted it was likely; everything had to do with Potter, in some way or another.

His eyes roamed the room further while they waited for Snape; was anyone missing? His first thought went to Pansy, but she and Tracey were huddled together in a corner of the room, feigning a self-confidence they could not possibly feel. Daphne sat with her sister on one of the couches, not far from the other girls, and seemed as curious as he himself felt; she had always liked gossip. Millicent, Greg and Vince stood in the opposite corner as Pansy did, not subtle about showing their opposition. There was no hiding that the room was polarized.

Montague, Murton and a few other seventh-years stood near the three. Other sympathizers included the fifth-year Carrow twins, a group of overly-excited fourth-years –who Theo personally thought were not fully aware of what they stood for– and known Death-Eater relatives.

Pansy and Tracey's corner of the room was much more sparsely populated, but encompassed every Slytherin half-blood from first to seventh year. The younger ones, who had started looking at  _him_  –Death Eater son  _him_ – with a fear so open it hurt his soul, clustered around Pansy as if she were the Chosen One himself.

Theodore had heard from Higgs, who had been present during the big commotion, that Pansy had apparently duelled Crabbe and Goyle wandlessly, made one kneel and the other  _pee_  his pants, and came out with her head held high. No wonder then, that the younger kids  _adored_  her. He was pretty sure he adored Pansy too, even if he was much too self-serving to openly show it.

"She looks like a mother hen," Blaise commented, sounding aggressive. Theo knew his tone was only there to hide his nervousness. In fact, Blaise was so fucking scared of his new step-father Theo thought he rather wished to hide behind Pansy, too.

"She fucking  _crucioed_  Goyle," he reminded him.

Blaise rolled his eyes. "Yes, Pansy the Great, Saviour of the Half-Bloods, the Girl-Who- _Crucioed,_ " he mocked, but Theo was quite aware Blaise had not antagonized her since.

Snape entered the room with a swish and a glare, as per usual. His father had told him he was a spy –"for which side?" Theodore had asked, and he had laughed. "If anyone could tell, the man would already be dead"– and he was reluctantly impressed. Indeed, he glared at  _everyone_  –Crabbe and Goyle, Pansy and Tracey, even Daphne and Astoria and the Carrow twins– with such coldness you could not tell who he favoured. Probably no-one. Usually Draco.

Wait, where was Draco?

"Silence," Snape said, and all whispering died down.

Snape paced, the younger students fidgeted, the older ones tensed, the room collectively held its breath.

"I would have thought," he started what promised to be a long tirade, "that despite the overabundance of dunderheads in this school, House of Slytherin was somehow better populated." He paused, glared at them all once more, and went on, "That despite the surplus of rule-breaking miscreants, the excess of overly-proud imbeciles and a plethora of foolish wand-waving ignoramuses – I could expect a modicum of  _common sense_ ," he dragged the last two words as he lowered his volume to a barely audible whisper, "from you all."

He paced some more, waiting for his words to sink, for everyone to wonder  _who_  had screwed up so royally this time. One of them, and not Potter, apparently.

"Mr Malfoy went missing last night," he just dropped, achieving the collective gasp he undoubtedly had been fishing for. "Middle of the term, without as much as a warning, Mr Malfoy  _decided_  it was  _wise_  to leave the school." Snape studied their faces carefully as he spoke. "No doubt, he must think himself such a valiant truant."

Blaise met his eyes in a silent question. He shook his head: no, he had not known any of that.

"Need I remind you," he went on, eyes hawk-like, nose prominent, "that all of you are  _obliged_  to stay within school grounds? That – Yes, Miss Murton, even you," she blushed at having been caught making commentary. "That this is a heavy  _infringement_  of school policies?"

Theodore kept his face neutral and his eyes following Snape's figure, but his mind was elsewhere. Draco had been hinting at an errand –an important errand, favouring his arm unnaturally, speaking of the Dark Lord–  _within_  the school. Draco was missing. How did Snape know he had left of his own free will, as he implied? And, if he knew – _the spy_ – was he telling the truth?

No. Draco, a  _valiant truant_? No way. Even Snape knew it was nonsense. Hell, he might be trying to tell them something  _else_  through his word choice.

Rumours filled the room as foam did the bath after Snape left. Blaise took his arm and they ducked, looking for privacy.

"Malfoy left?" Blaise asked him, and Theo wished he had an answer.

"He was doing  _something_ within the school," he said. Blaise knew; they had already discussed Draco's supposed service to the Dark Lord. "Did anything change? Did he achieve anything?" If he had, then that might explain him leaving. But Theo thought they would have noticed such a change.

"You think he failed?" Blaise sounded nervous. Scared, even.

"I spoke to him before the Quidditch match and he didn't even hint –" Theo shook his head. "He's never been much of an actor. If he  _left_ , then he didn't know he would yesterday morning." So yes, he might have failed.

Crabbe and Goyle seemed nervous. Did they know something? Or did they  _fear_ , just as himself?

"You think Snape's lying?" Blaise insisted, following his track of thought.

Theo laughed bitterly. "I'm sure he is. But that doesn't get me any closer to the truth."

* * *

Hermione had to admit she dreaded the conversation. Pansy was many things –some of them even good– but she was not exactly  _understanding_. She had been thinking of how to best broach the subject, and was betting on appealing to her practicality. After all, she would not get very far appealing to Pansy's empathy.

"Pansy," she said, dropping her heavy bag on the grass and waving to Charity and Garcia, who sat a distance away working on human transfiguration. Or, alternatively, Charity was trying to see how a short bob would work for her and Garcia was having fun curling it until it resembled a yellow escarole. "We need to talk," she said, and casted a  _muffiato_.

Pansy stopped munching on her pumpkin pasty, cheek comically bloated, and dropped the charms text she had been reading. "What now? Potter also set up guard in front of my fucking toilet?"

Pansy had not taken the news of Harry's watch on the Room of Requirement very well.

"Not about that, no," she said. It was an issue she did not know how to circumvent, and so for the moment they had resorted to having their most suspicious talks so publicly that nobody would pay attention to them twice. After all, who would expect two sixth-years to converse about dark magic on a lazy, sunny afternoon, sitting by the lake? Also, no potentially eavesdropping house-elves and portraits outdoors.

She did use a muffiato, and a tricky blurring charm to make lip-reading impossible, though.

"So, what is it?" she asked, offering a pasty. Damn, Pansy's grandma knew where to buy them.

"I've been thinking–"

"Surprise, surprise, behold the unexpected occurrence." Hermione glared and Pansy rolled her eyes saying, "Yes, yes, go on."

"So _, I've been thinking_ ," she repeated with marked emphasis, daring her to interrupt once more and earning an amused chuckle, "about the future, about what comes after Hogwarts."

"After Hogwarts?" Pansy asked, surprised by her choice of topic. They had never really talked about any plans that went further than bonding. Hermione was on her way to remedy that; she liked plans, after all. Colour-coded, if possible.

"Well, yes. When we're out there in the open, when the man you're supposed to marry comes looking for you," Pansy went grim, pale, tense. Before she withdrew completely into herself, Hermione took her hand and squeezed strongly. "When I'm a mudblood in a world in war, and the Order doesn't trust us, and the other side wants us dead."

"Fuck," Pansy sighed, "you sure know how to cheer a girl up." Well, perhaps pansy had not seen the topic coming either, on a lazy, sunny afternoon, sitting by the lake.

"It's our reality," Hermione reminded her, "and it won't go away just because we don't like it."

Pansy nodded, and took another pasty. Hermione agreed that this conversation required extra sugar. "And so? Has your thinking been productive?"

"Yes," she said, almost offended. She was  _always_  productive, mind you. "But you might dislike my conclusion," she threw her a worried, sideways glance.

Pansy raised a brow. "Which is?"

"We're not enough," Hermione said, letting her honest frustration be felt through her words. Pansy frowned, but she kept going. "We could deal with three teenage boys after taking them by surprise," she said, ' _and you almost got hurt_ ,' she thought. "But Death Eaters?" Hermione shook her head. "Do you know how many we duelled, back at the Ministry? The move in  _packs_ , Pansy."

She saw Pansy's face wrinkle with apprehension. She knew Death Eaters were a sore topic for her, but Rabastan Lestrange would come for them. It was a fact. They had to be ready.

"Even with our current power… We're speaking of  _adult_  wizards; trained, experienced, ruthless," she said. "Being only two is too risky."

There, there it was. She had finally said it.

Pansy did not answer for a long time. Hermione had started getting nervous, fidgeting with her bag, when she finally spoke up.

"Confiding in anyone else is equally risky," she started. Hermione worried at her lower lip. " _If_  we make this choice, we must be absolutely certain that we won't be betrayed." She hesitated once more. "I mean; I understand the need. As it was when we started, we could just have bolted the country." Hermione disagreed profusely, but she had learned to avoid unnecessary arguments with Pansy whenever possible. "And for bolting, we're powerful enough. I mean, I have keys to a couple of my mother's dowry vaults – I may be a blood traitor, but I'm not  _poor_ ," she sneered, and her haughtiness made Hermione roll her eyes. "We would have survived."

"But?" Hermione asked, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Pansy was on board; she could see it already.

"But we are a target," Pansy said with a grimace. "The Lestranges will come after me, for the dishonour I'll do them, and for siding with you. And if they actively search for us, then we're screwed."

Hermione nodded. There were ways to find people –terrible, dark ways– even if they hid half-way across the world.

"However, if we're  _more_  than two, and all of us complete the ritual…" Yes, exactly, Pansy saw it too. She bet she could feel the thirst for more; a stronger bond, a warmer magic. A larger  _coven_. If it felt so wonderful with only two of them, how much better could it get? How much stronger the overall result? Pansy's eyes shone with greed, the same hue as hers.

"We'll be  _stronger_ ," Hermione pushed. Pansy liked strength.

Pansy nodded dreamily. "Yes,  _stronger_ ," she said with a longing that made Hermione shiver. "But," she cut, returning them both to reality, "it's  _risky_. We need to choose carefully, and approach any candidates with caution, not in your Gryffindorish – Oh!" she exclaimed, almost making Hermione drop her pasty. "Oh, Circe's knickers!" she cursed, locking eyes with her, "You already did it!"

Damn. She was used to dealing with Harry and Ron; Pansy was way too sharp. What had given her away? Too direct, perhaps? Or Pansy just assumed she would have slipped before broaching the subject?

"Hermione!" she hissed. "Are you out of your bloody mind?"

Hermione raised her hands, willing to placate her. She had been so close… But, she could still fix this. She could get Pansy to see it her way. It would require a bit of careful wording, though. Subtle prodding, gentle questions; letting Pansy realize on her own that it had been a good choice, as well as unavoidable.

"You don't need to worry," Luna said, startling them both. "There're no portraits around the Room of Requirements." She sat next to them and made herself comfortable. "Oh, I love pumpkin pasties." She took one with delight. "They attract Pumpkin Puffs, though; better finish yours quickly."

Pansy's eyes went very wide. She turned her head slowly, and then looked at her as if giving her the  _one chance_  to do the right thing and admit it was a joke.

"Well, you always say  _I_  lack imagination," she tried for levity.

Pansy was not amused.

* * *

Charity brought little Gemma Hackney into the Common Room after having summoned her a handkerchief and asked for a large mug of hot chocolate from the kitchens; standard procedure. The second-year girl was still crying, but not sobbing uncontrollably, therefore an improvement.

"Hannah," she called, for she was the Prefect and not her. She was the one who should speak to professor Sprout. Charity tried to not feel bitter about it, and only partially succeeded. She knew, she told herself, she was  _easy to overlook_. How could she have made prefect over Hannah?

Abbott saw her and they exchanged a knowing look. "Gemma," she said, "should we sit by the fire and have some chocolate?" she suggested, and Charity let the girl go.

Victoria was working at the central, large, wooden table all Hufflepuffs used regardless of age. She loved that table, and how it made her feel the warmth of a whole house standing together. She thought they probably should have one just like this in the Great Hall, and forget about all those divisions that only ever hurt people.

"Another one?" Victoria asked, and Charity sighed. Victoria looked aloof half of the time, but she was  _fierce_  when it came to justice, and loyal like the rest of them. She could hear the quiet anger in her voice.

"Blishwick again," she said, and it was hard not to sound bitter. Even harder not to sound angry. The damned Slytherin third-year boy made all of their younger muggleborns cry at least once a week.

"Cock-sucking brat," Victoria cursed, and she felt no need to correct her. "Abbot and Sprout can't do a damn thing about this," she complained. "It's all  _pointless_."

Charity knew it was. She followed the rules; helped the girl and talked to the prefect, who spoke with the Head of House. And it was pointless.

"What does Sprout even do?" Victoria ranted, but did not expect an answer. They had this exact same conversation at least once a week. Sprout spoke to Snape, and he did nothing.

It was frustrating.

"What can  _we_  do?" Charity answered, resigned. Nothing. That was it. That was always it.

Victoria pursed her lips and stopped working on her arithmancy. "Well, we could do something," she suggested.

They locked eyes for a few seconds. Charity had always known they were different –so much that people never understood what they saw in each other– but sometimes she almost wished she were like Victoria. Charity followed the rules, and Victoria disregarded them with an ease that could only come from self-confidence. Perhaps, in the current situation, her friend's methods would get them farther.

"What? You want to curse a little kid?" Charity asked, because it was the wrong thing to do, but she kind of wished Victoria would convince her otherwise.

She rolled her eyes. "He's a little  _monster_ ," she said, "who'll grow up to be a bigger monster."

Charity had grown firmly believing there was good in everyone, and that all people were redeemable. But she had never been called a mudblood, she had never been spat on by a classmate, she had never been denied entrance to a shop purely for being who she was. Sometimes she though it was  _selfish_  of her, to believe in the goodness of people; if she were muggleborn, perhaps she would not be able to afford to.

Victoria made her rethink her way of life, sometimes.

"Hestia –A cousin of my father's– she asked me how things were at school, you know? During Christmas."

Victoria frowned. "You didn't tell me that." They told each other everything.

She shrugged. "I think I didn't want to admit it's worse." Saying it out loud, she felt overwhelmed. Would it worsen further? Would people  _go to war_? Would little Blishwick throw real curses at her, next time? The thought was…

"It is, though."

Simple as that. Victoria always made her face her own fears; she never sugar-coated the truth. It was, worse. It would, worsen.

"What are we going to do?" she asked, her voice trembling, the sudden realization –or perhaps admittance of a realization–  _sinking_  her into a drowning sea of insecurity.

Victoria caught her hand, which she almost never did because it sent her onto a frenzy of checking she touched her an even number of times, and held tight. She was grateful.

"Luna said Hermione and Pansy are preparing to fight."

* * *

Harry knew,  _just knew_ , Malfoy had been up to something. Malfoy was a Death Eater, he had come to Hogwarts for  _a reason_ , and then left. The sudden, mysterious disappearance was definite proof – even Ron had come around and admitted he was right. He needed to find out what Malfoy's mission had been; what if he had left something –a magical bomb of sorts– within the school?

He stood in front of the Room of Requirement, fully determined this time.  _I need to find out what Draco Malfoy was hiding_ , he thought fiercely.  _I need to find out what Draco Malfoy was hiding… I need to find out what Draco Malfoy was hiding._

Three times he walked up and down, as always, but this time the room complied; there was the door. Harry felt euphoric as he rushed inside, Dobby curiously peeking behind him, having been guarding the door in case Malfoy came back.

The sight left him befuddled. The room was large –larger than any room he had ever seen in Hogwarts, even the Great Hall–, the windows tall and high and the way the low afternoon sun shone through, it made the place look like a cathedral. And then ground-level, there were piles of  _stuff_  –all kinds– taller than himself, bundled together in shifting corridors that gave the small-scale appearance of a city built of skyscrapers. There was furniture –old and broken and stained with what looked like failed potions or spells– and perhaps as many books as in the whole of the Hogwarts library. There were Fanged Frisbees and so many of Fred and George's products he could open a shop himself. There was a blood-stained  _axe_ , a cage with a skeleton that had way too many legs and what looked like dragon-egg shells.

He wondered if the room was making fun of him. This was not what Malfoy was hiding; it was what  _anyone_  had  _ever_  tried to hide. There was no way he would find Malfoy's secret amongst the clutter.

"Dobby," he called, "Kreacher."

The loud  _pop_  echoed in the large room, and he winced.

"Yes, Harry Potter, sir?" Dobby eagerly asked. Kreacher was still not speaking, which Harry thought was a good thing.

"Help me find what Malfoy was hiding," he asked, and he took one of the many alleyways that went inside the city of lost treasures. "Anything that looks suspicious, or like it could be  _dangerous_ ," he said.

It was soon proven that his quest was a fruitless endeavour. Kreacher left and returned with a more gruesome find each time – dead rats, all kinds of mould, bloodied clothes, a very graphic torture manual, and even an enormous stuffed troll. Dobby tried harder, but was just as unsuccessful.

Harry stared at Dobby's collection of half-broken potion vials and thought they looked way too dusty to be recent. "It has to be something freshly used," he said, "something that required him to work on it often. Why else would he come up here all the time?"

Dobby nodded and Kreacher skulked around. Perhaps he should bring Ron in here, and have him help. He had expected to find some sort of potions lab, perhaps a dangerous beast; but nothing in particular drew his attention. It was litter here, clutter there, chaos everywhere.

He turned past the Vanishing Cabinet in which Montague had got lost the previous year –so this was where the twins had stuffed it!– and was met by yet another pile of old porn mags. He sighed, believing his mission to be impossible.

"Dobby, do you think there's a way to know if something was touched by Malfoy?"

The elf hopped on the pile of magazines from behind, wearing a tarnished tiara that was too large for his head and a white ballerina dress. Harry stifled a laugh at his choice of attire; Dobby took his freedom to dress very seriously.

"Dobby can't know, Harry Potter, sir. But Dobby thinks maybe some old magics could work."

Harry frowned, disliking the idea. Old magics always meant  _dark_ , and he had had enough of dark magic for one school year, thank you.

"This room is too big," Harry said, shaking his head. "We'll have to come back at another time."

Maybe he could tell Dumbledore about Malfoy hiding something in the room. However, unless he wanted him to be disappointed again, he had to wait until after tricking Slughorn into giving him the damn memory.

Bloody Slughorn. He had even been checking the Prince's book for ideas, and found nothing. He wished he could speak to Hermione, she might know how to get him to spill; some spell, some potion. But Hermione trusted Parkinson way too much, and might get tricked into telling by the Slytherin snake. Dumbledore had made it very clear, that those were secrets too important to risk.

"C'mon, Dobby, Kreacher, let's go."

He was already late for apparition lessons, and Snape would dock points again. The thought of the greasy git made his mood sour, and the thought of lessons did not help. After about seven classes, only  _Parkinson_  –of all people!– had managed to fully apparate. The rest of them had, up to some degree, managed to either splinch themselves –Harry thought losing only an ear was quite remarkable– or apparate out of the desired destination. Even Hermione had only apparated  _on_  Parkinson, and they had both ended up on the floor.

Well, maybe he would manage today, and  _finally_  accomplish something.

* * *

Tracey  _loved_  Quidditch. She loved it with a passion few shared, and flew with an agility many envied. At age eight, barely able to keep balance on a broom, playing with the sons of her mother's friends, she had dreamed of making her house team. A beater, she wanted to be; she had a mean swing. It would one day bring her house the Quiddtich Cup.

But half-bloods did not make the Slytherin team.

The  _distinction_  had always been there, at times better hidden. It had lurked behind the casual classism, the offhand remarks meant almost without malice. It had been patent in the slurs against  _mudbloods_  – but not her, not half-bloods at first. It had smiled mischievously behind Daphne not inviting  _her_  to the summer parties, Pansy cutting in when she spoke or Millicent's parents pretending she did not even exist.

And then, it had stopped being even moderately subtle.

_Zabini's half-blood whore_ , a third year girl had called her.

And then Blaise had become demanding instead of charming, insulting where he had once been gallant. It had taken her too long to realize how little he thought of her; but she had heard him tell Theodore  _half-bloods were there to have fun with_. His friend had answered he would not  _sully_  himself so.

Sully himself. Like she was  _dirt_.

_Dirt_  meant Daphne wrinkled her pretty, perfect nose when she walked by.  _Dirt_  meant never seeing Pansy without a sneer.  _Dirt_  meant losing Millicent.  _Dirt_  solely merited hatred or disregard. She did not know which she preferred. The way Theodore Nott's eyes roamed the room and passed over her as if she were furniture? Or Dracos Malfoy's nasty habit of whispering something into Pansy's ear whenever she walked into the room, making her snigger?

And then it had escalated.

And suddenly  _dirt_  meant Goyle cursing her in front of the common room; the seventh years joking about making a sport out of it. "Let her run," Murton had laughed, "muggles run."

_No_ , she had thought furiously.  _No, witches fly!_

She had wanted to hurt them; make them feel what she felt. Show them what it truly meant, to wish someone pain. Not just hope to have a little fun throwing half-assed curses to assuage their long internalized prejudice. No; Tracey spoke of true  _hatred_. Focused, personal, incensing. She spoke of truly wishing to tear someone apart, to skin him alive, to set him on  _fire_.

She could not do it, though; she was alone, and they were many.

And then there was Pansy.

Amongst all her peers, Tracey had always hated Pansy the most. Pansy, and her girly giggles, voice so high it could only be described as a screech. Pansy and her snobbish remarks, her posh accent, her rich robes that costed more than what her father –the  _muggle_ – made in a year. Pansy and her harsh laugh, almost a cackle, that sounded like a half-strangled chicken. Pansy, and the way she laughed at  _her_.

Pansy Parkinson was detestable from the top of her bob-cut hair to the tip of her manicured toes, and paying special attention to her pug-like nose.

And then she had cursed Gregory Goyle into a crying pile of piss.

Tracey would one day learn how to pull thoughts out of her mind and use a Pensieve only to immortalize that moment forever. She would replay it in a loop and sit on a nice couch, sipping some champagne and watch it for  _hours_. She might even send a copy to Goyle's mother.

Pansy might be an evil cunt, but now she was an evil cunt on her side. And while Tracey was a vicious, vindictive bitch, she could forgive  _one_  of them if it meant getting back at the rest.

Also, she kind of missed having friends.

* * *

Pansy wrote her name down for the apparition exam on the sign stuck on their noticeboard. The quill snapped under the pressure of her hand, and she cursed. Fuck, she was angry. No, she was more than angry; a little, overused word such as  _angry_  did not do justice to the intensity of her feelings.

She was incensed. Outraged. Wrathful. Choleric.

_Ireful_ , which was marked as 'literary' in the thesaurus. She had checked – no lady wanted to appear uncultured, even within the privacy of her own mind.

She had been giving Granger the silent treatment for a week. They both knew it would not last, and Pansy had actually been sitting next to her in all of their classes –it would not do to show weakness to their enemies– but it was imperative that she make her point. An absurdly simple one, really. After all, she did not ask for much.

Just don't fucking invite the lunatic into our coven.

Hermione had spent the whole week dividing her time between profusely apologizing and trying to convince her of Lovegood's idoneousness. Pansy had ignored her pleas, frowned at her arguments and set a written letter of apology on fire – just for the sake of dramatism.

Hermione had been rather miffed about the letter, though. She had put her foot down then; said that unless she was willing to listen to her reasoning she was only proving to be a worse choice of partner than Lovegood herself.  _Immature_ , Pansy had been called.

She hated when Hermione acted all reasonable. It left her no room for further tantrums.

Tracey offered her another quill, and Pansy took it with a grateful nod. She would try to fix hers later, but quills tended to act funny after  _reparos_.

"You know," Tracey said, having witnessed her vent her frustration on innocent objects a couple times, "everything would be much easier if you just made up with Hermione."

Pansy did know it, and was not fond of hearing it out loud. Tracey sniggered at her scowl, and wrote her own name right under hers. Behind her stood Theodore, glancing at the list.

"You're too young," she told him. He would be seventeen on May, and the exam was on the twenty-first of April. He most likely already knew, but she had not heard his voice since before Christmas and she kind of missed the way he drawled his vowels.

She did understand, though, why he was keeping his distance. She would not hold his desire to survive against him.

Theodore seemed surprised when she addressed him. He almost smiled – pulled his mouth at the last second, but his eyes were warm. She thought she could almost see a trace of an apology in them as he nodded, and only said, "Indeed."

Tracey watched him leave and scrunched her nose. "Charming," she said.

Pansy was quite aware Tracey did not hold any love for her fellow Slytherins – not that she could blame her; she had trusted Millicent once, and that was one mistake they shared. She had also fallen for Zabini – which, thanks to Circe's merciful love, they did  _not_  share – and that had ended in the painfully embarrassing way anyone could have predicted. All in all, Tracey's relations in Slytherin had never really turned out well.

Or started well. She and Daphne had hated the tomboyish half-blood at first sight. And even if she loathed Greengrass, she had to admit they were similar in their utter lack of mercy.

And, please, nobody get her started on  _Draco_.

Theo, though…

"Theodore's the best person out of us all," Pansy told her, because she honestly thought so. Perhaps he would not win Hufflepuff of the year, but within Slytherin standards, Theodore was remarkably  _nice_.

"In the country of the blind, the one-eyed man is King," Tracey quoted one of Garcia's favourite muggle sayings. "You lot are a terrible, terrible bunch, is all."

Pansy snorted. "If that's the metaphor you're going for, then  _you_ , dear, are blind all right."

Tracey smiled – Pansy had, after all, meant it as a compliment. She seemed about to answer but stopped short, her eyes darting somewhere behind her.

Pansy turned to the sight of little Upton moving toward her shyly. She exchanged a glance with Tracey, who was visibly amused. It was, indeed, not the first time one of the younger kids approached her.

He bit on his lower lip, squirming under her gaze, not quite daring to make his point. Pansy did not have all day; she raised a brow and stood tall, asking, "Well?"

"Can I ask you something?" the boy said after a brief hesitation.

Seriously, she had  _not_  been that timid as a first-year. Then again, she might have been called shameless by a prefect more than once. Pansy just crossed her arms and raised her brow even higher, expecting. The boy's wriggling only increased.

Tracey laughed, and got closer. "Don't worry," she told Upton. "She emulates Professor Snape, but I think she lacks his venom. Her glare can't even curdle dairy yet!"

Pansy sniffed affectedly, and raised her nose up high, "I'll get there, Tracey. I'll get there," she said, feigning offence.

Upton laughed, and then seemed to gain enough confidence. "Is it true you can do a lot of wandless magic?" he asked politely.

His huge eyes shone bright as he waited for a response, and she almost found the brat cute. Damn, going around with Hermione was making her soft. When had she become the go-to prefect for the littlest kids? She was a mean bitch, not mother Christmas. She still nodded at his question, and the boy almost skipped with joy. She did not smile though; encouraging the little buggers would be unwise.

"Can you show us?" he asked then, unable to hide his excitement.

Pansy looked up to find a couple second years and another firstie fidgeting as they waited for Upton to return successful from his expedition. She sighed audibly, because she could not just appear so  _easy_ , but still went towards them. Tracey followed her and Pansy was absolutely certain she would be mercilessly teased for days to come. Just wait until  _Hermione_  heard of this…

On another hand, though, she had never had much to show off. She was allowed to rejoice in her acquired power, even if it only drew the attention of little kids.

She focused intently and the pink pygmy puff sitting on Clayton's shoulder rose lazily, floating in mid-air. The kids went 'Oooh' and 'Wow' and 'Aaah' as she moved the pet around, lighted candles and turned Middleton's nails blue. Tracey laughed at her shamelessness, bragging in front of first years, but ended going a bit pale when Upton addressed her.

"Can you do it too?"

The silence was awkward, unpleasant as Tracey answered, "No." Noticing she had sounded harsh, she amended, "Wandless, nonverbal magic is not easy at all." Which was true. Sixth years had only just started learning simple nonverbal spells, which was an attainable skill. But wandless magic was harder, and many adult wizards were unable to perform much of it.

Upton turned out to be the boldest of the lot, as he asked her, "Is it because you're a half-blood?"

In other circumstances, they might have taken the question as an offense. However, given that Upton and most of his friends were half-bloods as well, Pansy found the question more pitiful than ill-intended.

"Did  _someone_  tell you this?" Tracey asked, her curtness betraying her anger. She had always been sensitive to any mention of her blood status, which Pansy had used mercilessly over the years.

Upton nodded, but before he could tell them who, Pansy snapped, "Nonsense!" They all jumped in surprise at her outburst. "Hermione Granger is a muggleborn, and she can do much more than I can."

It was true, too. Hermione's repertoire of wandless, voiceless spells was impressive; it went from casting fire to performing simple hexes, and even included healing. Pansy could do more than what she had shown, of course, especially right after a ritual – even if their bond was now permanent, and their prowess did not decay as before, in the hours that followed a ritual they were always at an unmatchable best.

However, no matter how many rituals they went through, they only  _enhanced_  their magic. And Hermione's had always been superior; vexing, but true. Denying this had once made her feel better, but it now seemed foolishly  _arrogant_  – arrogance would take her nowhere; siding with Hermione might.

And Pansy was determined to be more practical than proud. She had made that choice the day she had drunk Granger's blood.

"Study hard," she told Upton, "practice harder. Blood has nothing to do with it." Unless you drank, that is.

Her tone was final. The kids, wide-eyed and hopeful, had scurried away after the reassurance. Tracey's tenseness, however, had not disappeared. It was not until they reached their room that she spoke.

"You truly think so?" She looked wary, sceptical even. Pansy would not blame her, after everything they had gone through together.

"That your blood – Granger's blood, and mine are not so different?" she asked her, and almost laughed. She refrained from it thought; Tracey might think she was making fun of her.

Pansy did not have to think about the answer. While it was true that she now  _needed_  to have the half-bloods on her side, she had not lied to the kids to keep them happy. Not because lying for political reasons was below her, but because it was simply unnecessary.

Granger's blood had been in her  _mouth_ , as had her own. They tasted the same.

Granger's blood had bonded their  _coven_ , as had her own. They performed equally.

"There's a difference between us all. You, me, Granger," she said. Tracey's nostrils flared, but Pansy went on. "It's in our beliefs, in our culture, in our money, in our political power and even in our chances of success," she said. That, too, was true. Pansy knew she had been raised better than the other two; in a world of power and comfort, in a different social class. That meant there  _was_  a difference. "But it's not in our  _blood_."

Not  _literally_ , as she had once thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this written a while ago, but the last scene was resisting. I wanted Tracey and Pansy's relationship to flow more easily. Now I don't even know if it's good enough, I've read it and changed it too many times; so here it goes. Sorry for the wait.
> 
> For anyone interested, first Theomione interaction in the next one.
> 
> Thanks a lot for the support until now! I truly appreciate all comments, favs and follows this story receives. Thanks for reading!


	17. Play

**Coven. Ch. 17: Play**

Pansy sat for breakfast at the Slytherin table. It was a conscious decision, and it took more effort than she would ever admit to feign her usual level of self-confidence. In all due honesty, seating with the Hufflepuffs was much easier, no matter how many gave her rude, narrowed-eye stares. In Slytherin, not even Crabbe and Goyle glanced in her direction, but there was always the risk of getting cursed before the meal was over.

Pritchard and Baddock, the third-year half-bloods in her group, had gotten into a fight with Blishwick the previous night.

Blishwick was a nothing more than a little mean nobody using the recent tension to ingratiate himself to the Dark Lord's supporters. His family was not sacred twenty-eight; as far as purity went, Pansy was quite sure they could only show proof of wizarding ancestry up to four generations. Within the  _right_  circles, that was practically a half-blood. Therefore, and considering the brat's limited talent in anything remotely delicate, he needed to use violence to prove his usefulness.

Blishwick's need to prove himself had had a clear result: her boys in the Infirmary. Only Pritchard was awake, but had refused –flushed in both anger and embarrassment– to tell her what had happened. The rest of her crew, after hearing the news, had been contemplating breakfast in the kitchens.

Now, Pansy would have none of that.

She understood why her kids were afraid. The would-be Death Eaters had made a move, and hurt one of them; they knew there would be sneers and mocking comments over meals. A voice inside Pansy's head, which sounded annoyingly like Granger in her most insufferable lecturing tone, did not let her forget she would have been laughing with the rest of them barely a few months ago. True as that was, Pansy did not let herself feel shame; she had changed allegiances, and that was all that mattered. The past was in the past.

She sat, therefore, and even if Crabbe and Goyle did not glance in her direction, the tension increased tenfold. All her half-bloods sat nearby, grouped together in small clusters here and there, but within what was clearly  _their side_  of the table. A few empty seats marked a visible barrier between  _them_  and  _the rest_. She smiled at a couple jittery first-years and wondered when Tracey would come down.

She already missed sitting with Hermione –even if the group included  _Jones_ , and even when she would rather die than admit it out loud. She sighed, took some toast and a flicker of blue drew her attention.

"Oh, how nice," Lovegood said, sitting down right beside her. "Now I can say I've sat with all four houses."

Pansy could not help but stare with the gracefulness of a fucking  _peasant_ , as the daft girl took a scone and cut it in half. The whole table fell silent and she realized that, in all her years, she had never seen a student from another house sit with the Slytherins.

"Lovegood, are you –" what? Crazy? Out of her bloody mind? Well, yes, indeed. Pointless question.

"Eggs?" the girl offered, holding a plate.

Whatever inner world Lovegood had gotten lost into, it generally stayed disconnected from reality. Pansy was aware that she seemed to make sense sporadically, but one could never be fully sure that it was truly the case. And, occasional apparent grasp on sanity was not  _enough_  to guarantee Lovegood could survive eating with the Slytherins.

They would eat her alive.

Halfway across the table, she could see Daphne Greengrass lean toward Murton and Fawley, slowly scrunch her absurdly perfect nose and snigger. Damn, how could she manage to look so perfectly delicate even when acting like the mean little bitch she was?

Lovegood munched her eggs pensively, also having caught Greengrass' display, and said, "Probably a case of Scrunching Slaters. They crawl inside your nose, you know – curl into a ball and make it all itchy."

The best course of action, regarding Lovegood, was to nod and pretend she made sense.

"You wouldn't happen to know a cure, would you?" If anyone needed it, that was Daphne. She had perfected scrunching her nose into art.

"According to Mark Twain,  _travel_ ," she said.

Pansy nodded. She had no idea who Mark Twain was, but she could stand for Daphne traveling to a far-away place. Without return ticket, if possible.

"Well, I reckon her  _Slaters_  could be infectious… Dangerous stuff, right? You can go ahead and eat with the Hufflepuffs – No need for you to stay." The last thing she needed was giving Goyle and the rest even more ammunition against them. And Lovegood was a mean remark waiting to happen.

"Because I'm not a half-blood?" she asked, and Pansy, who prided herself on following the subtlest of conversations with the expertise of a woman born to Aster Parkinson née Shafiq, got lost.

" _What_?" Rather inelegant, indeed.

"I thought I'd stop by and contribute to your uprising, but if it's restricted to half-bloods then I'll step aside," she explained, carefully setting her eggs on top of a toast. "I'm very mindful of the Pureblood Saviour Complex. I wouldn't want to emulate Ronald, of course. But since you're leading it, I thought it was more a non-future-Death-Eater uprising, instead of a half-blood uprising."

Pansy would one day be very ashamed of having thought Lovegood would not notice a rift within the House of Slytherin even when there was a physical separation between groups sitting at the table. That first time, though, she was just taken by surprise.

Even though Lovegood noticing Crabbe and Goyle stalking her –once, moths ago– should probably have given her a clue.

"Half-blood uprising," she just repeated.

"Oh, sorry, did you have a different name in mind?" she asked. "Revolt? Or maybe insurrection?"

Pansy was very close to that mystifying state some called ' _at a loss for words_ ' – it happened, on occasion, to lesser women. She recovered, though, with her customary aplomb, took all her doubts and reservations regarding Lovegood and pushed them into a far-away corner of her mind, to carefully consider later.

"Why do you want to  _contribute_  to our cause?" she asked her.

It was a test.

Not on the answer, though; Pansy just wanted to see if Lovegood properly understood the question. Was she more aware than generally given credit for? Or was Pansy deluding herself?

Lovegood stared back at her –eyes pale and overly big– as if she could see straight into her thoughts; as if she were the one testing her. Her expression was unguarded; distant in an absent kind of way. Pansy found herself resisting the urge to fidget, which was preposterous, was it not? Why was she the one intimidated by her gaze? How could that empty stare be more disquieting than a glare?

"An uprising sounds like fun," she smiled. She was pretty when she smiled. Pansy disliked pretty girls with a bitterness fuelled by frustrated hours in front of a mirror, and too many years sharing a room with Greengrass. Lovegood's beauty, however, would never be enchanting; but rather, unnerving. "I don't like rules," she added.

Pansy raised a brow at that. Unexpected, from a nice, little Ravenclaw – and one openly seen as Potter's friend. Then again, she was Hermione's friend too; and even though Hermione  _did_  like rules –way too much– she could disregard them when necessary.

"What sounds  _fun_  about an uprising?" She sighed. The power, she liked; but the uprising in itself was giving her a headache. And headaches made her frown, which did not do any favours to her overall beauty.

Lovegood gave it a momentary thought. "The bit about Dark Magic, mostly."

Pansy spat her juice.

Hermione, who had apparently learnt deviousness during the previous months, chose that precise moment to appear out of nowhere and sit right in front of her, a mean smirk on her lips. Pansy was still coughing when she spoke.

"You know," Granger sniffed, pulling off the aristocratic pout perfectly, "I'm still waiting for  _your_  written apology."

* * *

Vicky got down to breakfast and was surprised to find her friends sitting  _out of place_. Momentarily frozen by the unexpectedness, the first thought in her mind was that well, Slytherin table was number two; Gryffindor would have been much, much worse –  _four_. Still, she disliked people breaking their habits.

_Her_  habits.

She sat next to Luna, in front of Charity, so that they could be three facing three instead of  _four_  facing two. She was starving. She surveyed the different platters of food; twelve pieces of toast on her left, twenty-three sausages in front of her, eight poached eggs on her right; perfect. She took a piece of toast and an egg, leaving  _eleven_  and  _seven_  behind –beautiful–, and dug in.

"Why are we sitting here?" she asked, cutting the egg in neat, equal parts.

"We're supporting Pany's uprising," Luna answered.

Huh. Well, fair enough; friends supported each other, and all that. She took seven mushrooms and left exactly seven behind, which was a wonderful way to start her day, and wondered 'an uprising against what?' The  _other side_ , that much was obvious – she could see the rows of empty seats between the two groups – but what did the sides stand for?

"Half-bloods and pure-bloods," Charity whispered, passing her a sausage from her own plate.

Ah, of course.  _Blood_. She should have guessed; it was always about  _blood_. She would have, if she had known which Slytherins were half-bloods… but honestly, she never paid much attention to whose vagina people had happened to pop out of; though others seemed to be weirdly keeping track. Talk about creepy.

She nodded to Charity, thanking her for the heads-up and for the sausage – she couldn't take it from the platter and destroy a twenty-three now, could she? Thank goodness Charity had finally got the hang of it, her life had become easier.

"We're a bit outnumbered," she said. Three and a half to one, precisely. Not that many half-bloods in Slytherin.

"Welcome to my life," Tracey answered in that lazy, drawing voice she used when angry. It was quite deceptive, the way she sounded bored instead of mad.

"At least you're not the most despised person around anymore," Hermione told her bitterly. "Garcia and I are drawing all the attention."

Indeed, twenty-seven of the students on the other side were not masking their disgust.

Pansy nodded. "I think it might be a  _historic_  event. Muggleborns, at the Slytherin table," she whispered darkly, as if betraying some terrible secret. "Professor Snape's about to get an indigestion." She smirked meanly, an expression that was oddly good-looking on her face.

True enough, Snape looked sour – well,  _sourer_  than usual. If he disliked the defiling of the table's purity, or was simply concerned their little stunt would end in hexes and curses, she could not tell.

"He's never liked me much," Vicky admitted. She was, after all, pants at potions.

In her defence, potions made absolutely no sense; their numerical equivalents were all over the place. As far as she could tell, each step was  _random_. How did people understand that nonsensical, aleatory theory well enough to create new potions? Did they arbitrarily throw in stuff and note down what happened? Were all new draughts necessarily brewed stochastically?

Hermione snorted, though Vicky barely noticed, still preoccupied with her potions problem. "Nor me," she said. "I'm an  _insufferable know-it-all_."

"That, you are," Pansy agreed, and Hermione kicked her under the table.

"He finds my attempts at potions innovation a 'hazard even greater than the threat posed by my mere existence,'" Luna contributed.

Charity laughed. "No wonder he's glaring at us."

"Now we only need Potter and Longbottom, and we get him blind just from intense eye-narrowing," Tracey added, sniggering.

Vicky laughed too, but because she was still imagining Snape dropping random bunches of ingredients in his cauldron while juggling. Who knew, a hair- _silkening_  concoction may come out of it someday.

They were interrupted by the noisy arrival of the owl post.

Why, out of the six of them, it was necessary that as many as a dreadful  _four_  were subscribed to the Daily Prophet, she would never understand. Could they not just share a couple copies? Take turns reading the news?

No;  _four_  owls had to drop  _four_  newspapers on their pumpkin juice every damn morning.

As always, Hermione was the fastest in casting a cleaning charm, and Pansy in unfolding the  _Prophet_. And as always, Tracey took a bored glance at the front page headlines while vanishing her soaked scrambled eggs – why did she even  _want_  the paper, if she only spent two minutes looking at it? – and Charity moved to the last pages in search for the featured interview.

On that morning, however, the similarities with their every-day routine ended there.

Pansy was the first to break it but, as she only showed it by going pale, it went unnoticed. Tracey's gasp was the voice of alarm and, knowing very well what an exclamation could mean those days, both Hermione and Charity hurried to read the front page.

"What, what?" Vicky asked, anxious, as the buzzing murmurs of  _big news_  filled the Great Hall.

"Murders," Tracey answered, reading the large headline, " _six_  on the same night, spread all over the country."

Her first, impulsive thought was that just  _one_  more would have made a beautiful  _seven_.

She cringed at her own thoughts, shaming herself for the traitorous, uncontrollable wish; for her instinctive craving of some numbers over others – what kind of person desired such a  _terrible_  thing, even for only a second?

Charity caught her wince, never missing a detail, and patted her hand reassuringly. An  _even_  number of times. The  _bestest_  of best friends.

"The Dark Mark was casted six times," Hermione corrected Tracey, unaware of Vicky's inner turmoil, "but the number of victims is actually between ten and twelve." Her eyes flew over the text, searching for the important bits, and her face grew grimmer. "Eric Munch, watchwizard at the Ministry. Muggleborn wizard John Ashley, and his muggle wife Marianne. Clotilde Gore, who worked at Obscurus Books. Oscar Riley, and his children aged four and six – his wife, Joan, is missing. Gilford and Edda Gambol; he was a member of the Wizengamot and she was a prominent researcher in the field of Arithmancy. Isolda Crowdy, another member of the Wizengamot – her sister Golda is also missing."

Well, fuck.

It was well-known that You-Know-Who had returned but, since the blowing-up of the Millenium Bridge, nothing of that calibre had happened again. Given how the bridge's explosion had been one single attack, and in a muggle area, this recent series of murders could be considered the Death Eater's boldest move up to date. After all, murdering wizarding families one after another posed a much greater risk for the perpetrators.

"At the same time?" Luna asked. "All of these –"

Charity shook her head and interrupted Luna's clarification. Reading snippets from the Prophet, she explained, "The Aurors were alerted by either neighbours or passers-by in quick succession – about once every twenty minutes, after 2 a.m. Apparently, it could have been performed by one single group, or individual." She read a few lines down, and quoted, "Given the unusual lack of signs of violence in the crime scenes, Head Auror Gawain Robards is inclined to believe ' _the murders were quick and devoid of extreme cruelty. It is feasible for one single perpetrator to have travelled from one scene to the next within the given time window_.' Whether or not this is the case, is currently under investigation."

So, the victims had not been tortured –  _unusual_ , according to the Prophet, she thought as she shivered.

"A one-night killing spree," Hermione said, frowning rather heavily. "I wonder if it's simply a terror tactic; showing how powerless and ineffective the Ministry is… It sends a message, doesn't it? They can kill people one after the other. They can't be stopped."

Charity's voice shook as she went on. "They sent the Auror department into quite a wild chase; thirty-two Aurors deployed. And yet, they didn't catch anyone."

Hermione nodded carefully, her gaze travelling to Pansy, whose face had gone whiter than she thought possible.

Tracey took over as Charity joined Hermione in her perusal of Pansy's never-before-witnessed quietness. "Fifty-two Aurors, six to each crime scene and sixteen patrolling various magical towns and neighbourhoods. Apparently, they were unable to find a traceable pattern… Unspeakables joined the Department of Law Enforcement in their attempts to predict following attacks, and were unsuccessful."

"The rest of the department must have been working behind the scenes," Hermione pointed out. Vicky agreed; a killing spree such as that had to be stopped at all costs. Perhaps apparition or spell signatures could be tracked from Ministry records? Had they been using arithmancy to find patterns?

"Fuck," Tracey shook her head. "Knowing Hogwarts has quite a few Aurors stationed in Hogsmeade permanently… It makes you think – Reckon they have enough people?" she asked nervously.

"I reckon  _we_  don't have enough people." Pansy's voice was cold as her fingers –knuckles white– folded the  _Prophet_  and set it aside. Excluding the very slight shake of her fingertips, she had recomposed herself enough to appear unaffected. "Get ready."

Vicky's eyes darted quickly to the other side of the table, where admittedly way too many people looked smugly pleased while checking such terrible news. Her blood went cold. How could people –some younger than herself– be  _pleased_  by other's murders? Even if they believed themselves safe, how was it possible to be so devoid of empathy?

The knowledge – the  _certainty_ , that those people sitting a few feet away from her would be pleased if she was murdered was just – just  _too much_.

"Will you be alright?" Hermione asked Pansy, worried.

Pansy grimaced, Tracey's face was overly neutral. "We'll manage," Pansy said, standing up. "It takes more than the likes of Crabbe and Goyle to scare a  _witch_."

The sixteen half-bloods on the table stood with her – an impressive display of steadiness; a compact, loyal, united group. Pansy looked every bit the fearless leader as she led them out of the room. The motion did not escape anyone's eyes.

"How some people can still say all Slytherins are the same is beyond me," Hermione told them. Tense as she looked –angry, even– there was pride shining in her eyes.

Even Charity looked impressed by Pansy's poise, and that was truly saying a lot.

* * *

Tracey's eyes followed Potter's figure as he cleaned up his ingredients with deliberate, and sadly obvious, carefulness. She nudged Hermione and both she and Pansy lifted their eyes.

"He's doing it again," she told them.

She was feeling rather soft with regards to Potter, given how he had just provided them with the most hilarious Defense class of the year –perhaps of the century– daring to say to Snape's very disagreeable face that  _ghosts were transparent_. Snape's sarcasm had been masterful; he had slaughtered the boy.

"Ah, it's easy to see that nearly six years of magical education have not been wasted on him," Pansy paraphrased meanly. "Look at him, about to cleverly corner Slughorn by trying to lag behind. Indeed, the seventeenth time might be the charm!"

Tracey laughed and Hermione glared at them warningly. "Too bad he's not  _transparent_ …" Tracey added, and winked at her. Pansy's shrill, high-pitched giggle made Potter drop his horned slugs.

"You're both so –," Hermione huffed in frustration, as if wondering once more  _why_  was she friends with them. "It was not so – Harry was  _right_ , anyway. Ghosts  _are_  transparent, and inferi are  _not_. Professor Snape was completely unreasonable."

"Was  _Roonil Wazlib_  right, too?" Pansy goaded her further. "Are Dementors now called  _Dugbobs_? Is it a slang term we have yet to hear of?"

"His quill malfunctioned!" Hermione got shriller and shriller when swelled with righteous anger. It was hilarious. "It could happen to  _anyone_! And Snape should  _not_  have picked his essay to read out loud, in any case."

"Not that it could be read," Tracey pointed out. " _Bumlligerent_  creatures," she recalled.

"A true  _orgury_  of Death," Pansy followed.

Hermione huffed, and turned on her heels, stomping out of the classroom and leaving them behind. They followed, still laughing and teasing, until they saw Potter overtake them in a fit of frustration.

"Oh, dear," Pansy sang in that very mean little voice only she could pull off properly, "seventeenth time wasn't the charm after all."

"What does he even want from Slughorn?" Tracey asked, too curious to follow-up on Pansy's opening.

Hermione took the chance to change the topic from  _Wazlib's_  mocking. "Whatever it is, Professor Slughorn really doesn't want to give it to him."

"Poor Golden Boy, not as favoured as he thought." Pansy was downright  _pleased_  about it.

"You really have no idea?" Tracey asked Hermione. She had been Potter's friend for a long time, and probably knew him well.

Hermione exchanged a quick glance with Pansy, and then shrugged.

And there, Tracey knew, they had just spoken with a single look, told each other something –one of those  _secrets_  only the two of them were privy to. Hermione must know more than she admitted, and only Pansy would hear the truth.

However, instead of feeling affronted, Tracey was  _excited_. She already knew they had secrets, shown by those shared glances, careful inflection when speaking, the calculating looks they got every now and then when reading the  _Prophet_. Some, she thought, must be related to politics, for they were making a rather bold statement just by standing side by side. Others, she truly, truly hoped, had to do with how Pansy had gone from average student to mastering wandless magic in a matter of months.

Who cared about Potter;  _that_  was the secret she truly wanted to be let in on.

* * *

Severus' hands shook wildly as he tried to uncork the vial and, had he not been sitting, his robes would now be soaked: twice, he almost dropped the damned thing. He managed to take a swig safely, but as he tried to return the vial to a stable surface, his hand crashed against the corner of his desk. The pain of the glass splinters stabbing his flesh was barely a caress compared to the  _burning_  of his nerves.

The after effects of the cruciatus were long-lasting, and his potions slow-acting.

He allowed himself to rest his head against the chair. He could worry about the broken glass later; nobody had ever died of blood loss because of a couple little cuts. It was not like he was in any condition to perform a spell, anyway.

The Dark Lord had been displeased with Draco's murder.

Severus had been taken by surprise –something he truly could  _not_  afford. Of course, the Dark Lord knew Draco had passed, for the Dark Mark that tied them all to him became a void link after death. What was unexpected was that the boy's murder had not been on his orders.

The Dark Lord had no reason to lie in that regard; if Draco had tried to desert, or failed, he would have killed the boy. Most likely after punishing him severely, and for all to see.

Even if he had decided to kill Draco on a whim, he would not lie about it; for the Dark Lord needed not justify his actions to anyone. Besides, he had been  _furious_. Enraged that someone had taken away what was rightfully his, and in such a secretive manner.

And worse of all, Severus had assured him Dumbledore was not to blame either.

If it had been the Old Man, as the Dark Lord sometimes called him, then it would have been fair play. After all, the boy was being used as a weapon against Dumbledore, and threats had to be dealt with, understandably. Severus, as well as Albus, had suspected that had been the Dark Lord's intention all along; a way to punish Lucius as he hid, out of reach, in Azkaban.

But no. Dumbledore had not killed Draco. The Dark Lord had not killed Draco.

Then, who?

Severus had to admit that, before this point, he would have deemed the very concept of a third party at play farfetched. Simply because the two men he served were so powerful, so terrifying, so full of secrets that there was no space in Severus' mind to consider anyone else. Even now, he thought the incident had to be at least indirectly related to one of the two.

He wished either his hands –and therefore wand– or his legs were properly functional, so that he could get himself a glass of something strong. It was terribly unadvised, after the  _cruciatus_ , and alcohol never mixed well with ingested potions; but Severus knew his life would be short anyway.

He tried to analyse the facts once more, being able to think –and aware of new information– for the first time since the cursed words had left the Dark Lord's mouth.

Albus had been able to reconstruct Draco's movements within the Castle right before his death, thanks to the help of some particularly nosy portraits – the thought that all those old paintings payed such avid attention to his movements was  _revolting_ , but it had proved useful in this case.

Draco had been seen heading toward the seventh floor –it was unclear which was his exact destination– with two young girls. Specifically, Patricia Maddison, second year Ravenclaw and Portia Dupont, first year Hufflepuff. Curiously, the girls had reappeared on the second floor minutes after being last seen on the seventh. Severus knew with certainty that nothing short of flying through the empty spaces between the moving staircases would have got them there unseen by portraits.

Even more curious was how both girls had been attending the Quidditch match at exactly the same time.

Add to this that Crabbe and Goyle's memories showed them being attacked by Draco in a seventh floor corridor, and the conclusion was easy. The two goons had deemed it necessary to polyjuice themselves into younger students –who usually had no reason to venture as high up as the seventh floor– in order to go with Draco Merlin-knew-where. Why them and not Draco himself, was anyone's guess.

At some point, after what was initially a joint expedition, Draco had turned on them – or them on him. And according to Albus' glimpse into their murky, chaotic memories, the two boys had returned to the dungeons.

Well then, why had they seen the need to fly –or use any other unorthodox means to remain unseen– all the way down to the second floor?

It made no sense.

And how had Draco left the school right afterwards, and from the seventh floor no less? There were no secret passages, that he knew of, that connected that seventh floor corridor with the outside.

Was it all a diversion technique? Perhaps Draco had then expertly disillusioned himself and left another way, leaving behind a bunch of false, confusing clues?

In any case, he had managed to leave the school – or Albus would have found him while he was still alive. Severus' guess what that he had found a connection to the  _outside_ , and then been killed somewhere else. Perhaps he had made deals with undesirable men –the likes of whom could be found in Knockturn Alley– in his impossible quest to murder the Headmaster.

Severus had more questions than answers, but what was clear was that Crabbe and Goyle were the clue to most of them. Now, if only Albus were not so keen on saving their expendable, barely functioning minds! But no, they had save the sadistic simpletons. Never mind that it was perfectly fine for Lily's son to risk his life over and over again; the idiots were untouchable.

Unless…

Well, the Dark Lord had shown high interest in knowing the truth. If Severus did his job properly and reported his findings to the Dark Lord, perhaps he would be  _ordered_  to have a look into their heads himself?

Albus would not risk Severus angering the Dark Lord for those two, much less when the fools were sons of Death Eaters. Their own fathers would give them away to appease the monster they served.

And then Severus would get his answers.

* * *

Hermione was certain she had never exchanged one single word with Theodore Nott. She though, perhaps, he had once laughed when Malfoy had called her a mudblood. She wasn't fully sure, though; the boy was about as unremarkable as it got.

He stood, back against the wall and long legs blocking the way out of the Runes corridor. He was easily taller than her even while not standing fully upright, and despite the thinness, his figure was imposing. Perhaps it was the effortless confidence he exuded, the way he could relaxedly smirk while certainly aiming for a confrontation. It was clear that he had gone out of his way to stand in  _hers_ , so Hermione was certain he was about to become remarkable. Probably in a bad way.

"What do you want?" she asked him, hiding the wand in her hand behind the folds of her robe.

His sophisticated stance felt imposing; not enough to scare her, but it did make her tense. She was alone, she had stayed behind speaking to Professor Vector for far too long, but she was skilled enough to deal with him. Nott was a good student –that, and only that, she knew about him– but she was the damned best witch in their year.

Nott showed her his raised hands, disarmed, the universal gesture to say he only wanted to talk. She lifted a non-verbal shield. She did not trust him one bit; Zabini might be lurking right behind her.

"Nothing, really," he said with a suavity and nonchalance that were in dissonance with his unappealing lankiness. She supposed good money fixed a great many things, starting with teenage insecurities. That, or he faked as well as Pansy did. "Just wondering how come you're not sticking to Parkinson as usual," he sneered. "One would think she'd need you to, now that what she fears the most has come to happen."

He smirked and leaned on the window frame, looking smug as he made fun of  _her_  Pansy. She felt her cheeks redden, and Theodore Nott was a very lucky boy that she and Pansy had finally bonded, and her dark wrath was no longer out of control. It still simmered, though, at his words. She felt it, old and familiar and almost  _missed_ , curling around her stomach at the thought that the sodden, little arsehole was making fun of them. That, despite having nothing to gain from it, he had waited twenty long minutes to ambush her only to rejoice in the shallow pleasure of taunting her.

Wait.

Why on Earth would he do that?

He had never, ever as much as spoken out a word against her; not even when surrounded by his fellow Slytherins, in front of whom he could have felt the need to prove himself. And now, he waited to ambush her all by himself? In private, for his own pleasure? That was… most likely out of character.

And why would he randomly mention Pansy? Why would they be together, when she did not take Runes? Nott took Runes, he knew that. It was an absurd taunt.

And then it hit her. His words, ' _Now that what she fears the most has come to happen_.' And, what did Pansy fear the most?

There was only one thing, only  _one_ , that had ever sent Pansy into a panic attack.

If she was reading the situation correctly, Nott was actually giving her a  _clue_.

She smirked in return, to test the waters, and she could tell he had not predicted that reaction. He was startled, briefly shaken out of his perfect composure – so, at least partially faked, then – and his shoulders squared, losing their easy casualness. He had probably expected an angry hex,  _à la_  Harry Potter. Well, ' _news for you, rich boy_ ;  _Hermione Granger has spent half a year interacting with Pansy Parkinson, and she does_ aggravating _much better than you'._ He would need to try harder in order to provoke her.

"If you want her to know so bad," she said, and he took in a sharp breath that told her she was right in her guess, "why don't you just tell her yourself?"

Nott's practiced poise dissolved into a much more guarded expression. His eyes narrowed as he probably reconsidered his opinion of her, revaluated a careless judgement he must have made out of sixteen years of thoughtless prejudice. All in all, his blank face told her she was right – Nott had used the provocation as an excuse to pass along information. Why, though?

Hermione considered pressing the issue, but his eyes were cold enough to tell her that, if he was trying to help someone, it was not  _her_. She would have to ask Pansy what, exactly, was her relationship with Theodore Nott. As it was, she doubted he would tell her more – dirty, mudblood her; she was having thoughts above her station just by speaking to him, was she not?

She huffed and tried to step around him, to leave and go tell Pansy the news. She had a busy schedule too; classes to attend to, a new meeting room for her and Pansy to find –and Luna now, if Pansy got down off her high horse– and other people to consider inviting into their coven.

However, when she had barely moved a couple steps away, he reached to grab her arm and stopped her. "Wait," he said, "I can't tell her myself."

His almost pleading tone was in strong dissonance with the previous, mocking one. He sounded way more desperate than she would have ever expected. He wanted his information to be passed along, wanted it enough that he was willing to  _touch_  her. He noticed she was staring at his hand –his fingers were even longer than Ron's, she realized– and withdrew it quickly, as if burnt.

"Just tell her," he said. "She'll understand."

Hermione rolled her eyes, offended. First, because he actually thought she might not tell Pansy, which was preposterous. Second, because the damned purebloods thought only they could speak in code, or even in moderate subtlety. Nott had clearly never met Luna.

"And so do I," she snapped.

He was surprised now, surprised for real. His eyes went wide –and were almost the same shade as Malfoy's, perhaps a little darker– and he gaped for a second. He had evidently thought Pansy did not share her secrets, that their relationship was much too shallow to allow for confidences. Well, his mistake. She had caught on his message; she knew Pansy's fears well, because she shared them. She would protect Pansy from any man who tried to make her submit.

They were one, after all.

As he chose to stay silent, she pressed. "Just like I understand why you won't tell  _her_. Can't be seen making nice to the blood traitor," she paraphrased Tracey. "You're a coward," she spat.

Nott went pink and shut his mouth into a grim, tense line.

"You lot throw that word around as if it were the worst thing a person could ever be," he told her with more feeling than she had spoken with until the moment. "But I've seen the world outside these walls, Granger. And believe me, it is  _not_."

Hermione blushed slightly too. She had always been sensitive to people using that lecturing tone; and Nott sounded just like Snape did when he thought her too naïve.

"I've seen it too," she said curtly. "Dolohov showed me  _nicely_ , mind you."

How dare he, privileged little lord that he was, think she had seen no horrors?

Nott frowned, unaware of what she referred to, but clearly filed the information away for later. Given who his father was, he could probably find out easily. He could, she reflected, probably find out a whole lot of things easily.

So, why not try to fish out some more?

"Is he out too?" She asked him, and cursed the way her voice shook. The man still played the leading role in her nightmares. "Dolohov," she clarified, though it was probably unnecessary.

Nott nodded, and whispered, "All of them."

Hermione's heart clenched as she let out a shaky "fuck," and she felt her legs give slightly. Nott looked uncomfortable as she struggled to keep straight; as if knowing he would offer support if she were anyone else. Their differences were made patent in that simple gesture – or lack of thereof, but she found it telling that he was unsettled by them. He might be a blood purist, but he was certainly no Malfoy; her anxiety unnerved him. There was, perhaps, capacity for empathy in him.

Hermione fought to recompose herself and said, "I'll tell Pansy." She did not thank him, though. What she had told her was meant for Pansy; and had they not been friends, Nott would have never spoken to her.

"You'll trust me?" He asked, a question that escaped his lips without much thought. Again, he might have expected more resistance.

She shrugged. "I'll tell Pansy word by word, and she will make that choice."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mark Twain famously wrote "Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime," in The Innocents Abroad. Let us imagine Pansy asks Hermione about it later, and finds it a good choice to describe Daphne.
> 
> Thanks a lot for reading and for your support! 


	18. Path

**Coven. Ch. 18: Path**

"I still can't believe the  _Prophet_  chose not to speak of this!" Hermione was incensed that the news of the break-out had been omitted that morning, but Pansy could not say she was surprised – as if the  _Prophet_  had ever spoken a word of truth. She would know; she had fed it lies herself.

"Some say ignorance is bliss," Lovegood said, "but controlling ignorance is  _power_."

"Must you speak half in riddles, half in quotes all the time?" Pansy asked her, annoyed, even when she quite agreed with her point.

"Not really," Lovegood answered, and went for another chocolate cookie.

"We're getting side-tracked  _again_ ," Hermione pointed out, but without her initial irritability. She was getting used to re-focusing the conversation every time Lovegood  _happened_. "The point here is this second major break-out of Azkaban," she reminded them.

Pansy wished it was not so damnably sunny, or the grass so awfully green, or the lake so annoyingly sparkly in the distance – the scene was way too idyllic to be discussing such grim topics. However, they had to comply with Hermione's insistence they leave the castle and its  _unsafe_  walls. The new addition to Hermione's growingly paranoid privacy tactics was sitting not only far from the main building, but also from the lake. "Dumbledore speaks mermish!" she had screeched, as if unable to forgive herself for allowing such a safety hazard until now.

Lovegood offered her a cookie, and Pansy took it because she was not one for turning down chocolate.

"You have pretty fingers," Lovegood noted, and Pansy could see Hermione tightening her fists in frustration. She repressed the urge to snigger. How was it that Mike had called it? Ah, yes,  _karma_. That would teach Hermione to think twice before choosing a new fellow member.

"I bite my nails, Lovegood," she answered. Her hands were an atrocity.

"You do," she agreed, and fetched some pumpkin juice for everyone.

"I think the killing spree reported a few days ago was a distraction," Hermione went on, as if she could erase their side conversation by sheer force of will. "A couple Death Eaters went for a highly organized and quick succession of attacks on different families, sent the Auror department into a wild goose chase and, meanwhile, the rest of them broke their comrades out of Azkaban."

"The timing  _is_  suspicious," Pansy agreed. "We don't have precise information, but the two could be related. Do you think you could get Potter to confirm it?"

Hermione snorted. "I'm sure Dumbledore knows, but he's usually not generous with this sort of information. Not with  _children_ , at least – Harry might not have heard a thing, and then I'll look very suspicious for knowing."

And Potter was already distrustful enough, yes.

"Well, it doesn't really matter. They're out, and it's good we know it," she dismissed it.

Hermione always wanted to understand everything, but Pansy could discern between essential information and glorified gossip. She was unconcerned about the specific mechanics of the break-out, to be honest. The  _essential_ , they already knew. And thank Circe and all of her ancestors that Theodore had gone out of his way to inform Hermione. He had risked himself –if anyone ever found out, he would be deemed a  _traitor_ – and Pansy held no doubt that he had done it for  _her_.

"We have to be on our guard from now on," Hermione said. "Some of the Slytherins may hear, and feel emboldened by the knowledge."

Pansy agreed. It was something she had already considered. Her housemate's reactions had been relatively  _mild_  until the moment, with the exception of Goyle's attempt – which everyone had though too daring. Another step in the wrong direction on her part, though, and they might decide to try again. After all, Rabastan Lestrange himself would take personal offence at her refusal. How many of her housemates wanted to be on his good graces?

"This is when dark curses become useful, right?" Lovegood perked up, re-joining the conversation.

"We don't know many," Pansy told her, because that seemed to be the whole reason she wanted to join them; an uncanny interest in the Dark Arts. Lovegood was unaware that the ritual caused a magic enhancement – Hermione had confirmed it. Was it the allure of the forbidden, then? A Ravenclaw's thirst for all kinds of knowledge? Or did darker motives hide behind her innocent façade?

Dark magic was not easily accessible. The only books they owned on the subject had been sent by her mother, and they had yet to fully go through them – they were, as usual, unnecessarily ambiguous and difficult to understand. Pansy thought they would do better by starting with Hogwarts' Forbidden Section, which might have more basic texts on the Dark Arts. However, no Professor would write them a permit now that Hermione had fallen from their graces. In any case, without the privacy of the Room of Requirements they did not dare read any questionable books. Her mother's gifts were well hidden at the bottom of Hermione's trunk.

"The curse you taught me was nice," Lovegood said, offering her more cookies – damned good things, where had she got them?

"You taught Luna dark magic?" Hermione asked, scandalized.

Honestly, as if they had not fucking  _killed_  Draco.

Pansy waved her hand, "For the  _nargles_ , Granger," she said. Lovegood beamed. Hermione looked unconvinced.

"Weren't you planning to learn more?" Lovegood asked Hermione.

Hermione moaned. "Well – Yes," she admitted. "On a theoretical level, I agree that there are…  _aspects_  of our bonding magic that we need to understand." Pansy laughed at her unnecessary use of euphemisms;  _bonding magic_  Morgana's ass! "And I'd like to read more on the subject, analyse the bond adequately – take side effects into proper account. Research!" she exclaimed. "But we need a private place for that, I can't take those books out in public."

"And the Room of Requirements is unusable right now," Lovegood followed.

Exactly. Damn Potter… They were supposed to be practising Occlumency, new curses, duelling techniques – even introducing Lovegood into the coven. Her idoneousness was debatable, but Hermione was at least absolutely certain she could be trusted. And, annoying as it was, Hermione tended to be right.

Pansy got warm just thinking about the idea, the mere possibility of  _expanding_ , of becoming stronger, a more complex entity. Even now, bonded as they were, she felt the familiar thirst for the ritual – she wanted it again, as one may crave the carnal pleasure of sex. The knowledge that they could not exchange blood anymore made her anxious, even when her magic was still at full force.

"We need to get the room back," she agreed, her voice huskier than she had intended.

"And more people," Lovegood insisted.

* * *

Charity fidgeted anxiously as she queued with the rest of old-enough sixth years, waiting for Filch to finish his usual prodding act with the Secrecy Sensor. Victoria, who had expressed her profound doubt that the thing was useful as anything more than paperweight, rolled her eyes at the scene.

She overheard Potter wishing good luck to Weasley and glared at him when he turned –which made him clearly uncomfortable– for all the wrongs he had done Hermione. She, too, disliked Parkinson with a passion; but that was not reason enough to abandon a friend.

Hermione, as if summoned by her thoughts, joined the line with a sniffle and a muffled "hi," having apparently caught a spring cold. Charity shared the warm tea she kept in her bright purple Never-Go-Cold bottle, the newest Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes product. It also made the tea sparkly pink, which she would never admit she found adorable.

"I hope this damned cold doesn't affect my apparition," Hermione mumbled, and then sneezed.

Charity tried to smile, but it came out as a bit of a grimace. Hermione would be able to apparate half-way across the country while asleep  _and_  confounded. She was not the one who should be worrying. "You'll do just fine," she told her.

Victoria gave a couple strong pats to her back, and said, "And so will you," as if she had just read her mind. "It's just extra lessons too, yeah? No pressure."

Charity nodded and hid away her bitter thoughts; it was an easy thing to say for all the girls who had managed apparition at least once. Victoria was a quick learner when something caught her interest long enough, and Hermione and Pansy could get Twycross to melt into a puddle of praise. Even Tracey had already succeeded in their last lesson; only  _she_  was left.

She might still pass the exam, though. In her line, she would manage to be utterly unremarkable; failing would be too attention-drawing.

"You're worrying too much again," Victoria scolded her. "You have the whole morning to try, don't give up so soon."

Hermione nodded. "Once you manage once, it comes easily enough. We'll lend you a hand," she assured her, and gave her a short hug.

Their words lifted her spirits a bit –as well as her own determination to drive negative thinking away– and the hug did even more. Victoria noticed and joined, sandwiching her between them. They were all suddenly shaken by a large impact – Tracey jumping on them from the side at the loud yell of "Good morning!"

They separated quickly as Filch yelled at them – he was even more of a bitterly rancorous man since Mrs Norris had disappeared, and even the lightest of breezes seemed to irritate him. They resumed their chatter –Oh, and Parkinson had joined them at some point too, like a dark mouldy spot that was impossible to scrub away from the wall– once they had passed Filch's control, and they slowly made their way down toward the village.

"Hermione?" came a surprised voice from their side.

A woman she did not recognise – young, thin and with dark, greyish hair stopped by their side. Charity had never seen her before, but even she could tell a certain aura of  _sadness_  clung to her figure; patent in the shadows under her eyes, the baggy, unflattering clothes and the weakness in her voice.

"Tonks," Hermione answered, surprised. "What are you doing here?"

"Ah," she answered, as if hesitant to talk even when she was the one who had drawn their attention. "I came to see Dumbledore."

"Did something happen?" Hermione had gone still at the mention of the Headmaster's name, and Charity wondered who that woman was, who was close enough to Albus Dumbledore to just drop by for a visit.

"No – Nothing important," she assured them, picking at the sleeve of her robe, looking around distractedly. "Just, rumours. People getting hurt – thought he might know what's going on."

"Yes, the Prophet is full of these news," Hermione agreed, but something in her countenance told Charity she was holding back – she looked way too tense to be talking to a friend, and perhaps even a bit confrontational.

The woman did not seem to notice, as she mentioned, "The  _Prophet's_  often behind the times." She did not sound interested in her own words, despite how ominous they sounded – had something else happened, after all? "Have you seen Harry?" she changed the topic.

"Back at the castle. He's not seventeen yet – we're out here for apparition lessons," Hermione told her.

"Ah, good luck," she wished them, and they all muttered their thanks. "Well… I'll see you around, Hermione…"

Tracey and Victoria did not take longer than a second to pound on her after the woman's departure. Pansy's gaze was calculating – which, frankly, was a common occurrence.

"Who's that?" they wanted to know.

"Tonks," Hermione told them. "An Auror. A friend of – " she paused, as if unable, or unwilling, to describe their relationship. "An old friend," she settled for.

"She was awfully cold," Victoria pointed out. Charity agreed that their interaction had not been warm, but in her opinion the woman's attitude veered more toward uninterested or perhaps extremely distracted.

Hermione scowled. "I don't think I'm being trusted," she told them.

"Is this about how you used to be in that Dumbledore's Army thing?" Tracey asked. "Is she part of some Potter-Dumbledore support group?"

Hermione was clearly uncomfortable with the conversation. Charity understood Tracey's curiosity, but also thought a friend's unwillingness to share had to be respected. She was about to interfere to either support Hermione or change the topic of conversation, when Parkinson beat her to it.

"Something like that," she told them. "Something none of us would be invited into," she added in her pointedly sharp voice, turning her nose up high.

"I wonder if she's here to talk to Dumbledore about whatever it is the Prophet failed to report," Victoria said.

Parkinson and Hermione shared a quick glance that she did not fail to notice.

_Secrets_.

Why was everyone around her swimming within secrets as of late? Charity missed her first years at school, when her biggest worries had been the Quidditch cup and not getting caught when sneaking into the kitchens for midnight hot chocolate.

"The Prophet's behind the times," Tracey repeated, scowling. "Why would she say that and not elaborate?"

"She said more than she intended to, I think," Hermione told them. "But being an Auror, she's bound to know the worst kinds of things."

That made sense. It was also a completely empty and uninformative comment. Judging by Tracey's eye-narrowing, she agreed. Hermione and Pansy must know more than they let on.

' _Luna says Hermione and Pansy are preparing to fight_ ,' Victoria's voice whispered within a corner of her mind.

Indeed, that seemed to be the case.

* * *

Theodore leaned back on the cosiest of the Common Room's couches, a good book in hand, and prepared himself to thoroughly enjoy the Sunday morning. The quietness was unusual – the rest of sixth years had left for their apparition lessons, and more students were opting to spend Sundays in the Library now that the school year was nearing its end.

He flipped the book open, and despite the tranquillity and the quality of the prose, he could not manage to focus. It was one of those instances in which, despite your best efforts, a torrent of random, shameful memories that made you inwardly cringe decided to assault your thoughts.

He was embarrassed.

He could not get the conversation with Granger out of his mind. Her words echoed in his head and the image of her cocky smirk surfaced whenever he closed his eyes. What truly mortified him, however, was how poorly he had read her; how unable he had been to predict her reactions.

And Gryffindors were supposed to be the hasty ones.

He knew she was smart – it was something no pureblood could stomach easily, and his father was fond on reminding him of how she managed to overshadow his poor efforts. However, he had assumed she was a more bookish type of smart, not truly  _intelligent_.

And yet she had seen through him as if he were a ghost.

He had only intended to provoke her, get her to repeat his words to Pansy in a fit of anger, and have Pansy grasp the message hidden behind them. Instead, he had given his information straight to her; divulged even more than he initially intended. How shameful, that a girl with no breeding to speak of had outmanoeuvred him. If his father ever learnt of that interaction, Theo might be more severely punished for his humiliating defeat than for his treason.

And despite it all, what shocked him the most out of the whole affair was not Granger's mental capacity. No, it was the  _trust_.

Pansy trusted a mudblood enough to tell her about her engagement to Lestrange.

Granger trusted Pansy enough to let her decide whether Theodore's words were reliable and honest, or sheer lies. ' _I'll tell Pansy word by word, and she will make that choice,_ ' she had said. How utterly unbelievable. How could two people who hated each other become close enough for such confidences?

Theo had once believed Pansy's betrayal to their side was purely out of need to survive. He had assumed Pansy had tricked Granger into believing she had changed her mind about mudbloods and muggles; that she had  _reformed_. And yet, Pansy was not faking her trust.

Could it be that she was not faking her change of heart either?

* * *

"I still think Tracey's the safest bet," Pansy told her.

Hermione sighed. She was tired of having this conversation.

"I like Tracey," she conceded. "But she hated you, Pansy.  _Despised_  you until last Christmas."

"So did you," she pointed out. "And look at us now, best of chums," she smirked, and Hermione shoved her strongly. Pansy lost equilibrium when she lost the support of the tree behind her, and called her a very mean name.

"Can't assume everyone else is as foolish as I am," she told her, ignoring her petty insults with an ease that came from practice.

"Tracey can't betray us, Granger," she drawled her surname with the same bored voice she had used for the past six years. Hermione hated that she was becoming fond of it. "She's got no one else. Too Slytherin for your Potter, too dirty for the oafs and Murton. And she's not one for neutrality, trust me on that."

How weird was it, that she did trust her? Still, despite Pansy's opinion on Tracey's character, revealing their blood magic was very risky. Hermione knew Luna would never act against them – she was the sweetest of friends, in that way; but she could not say the same about Tracey. What if she was threatened? What if she valued her own life more than their friendship?

"I'd like to wait a bit before trusting Tracey," she told her.

"And yet you'd trust  _Garcia_ ," Pansy complained bitterly. "What reason does she have to stay loyal to us?"

"You do realise she's a muggleborn, right?" Hermione pointed out.

"You do realise she's friends with  _Jones_ , right? Take a guess now – a wild one, really," she said in a nasal, mocking voice. "How would Jones react if she knew what we've done?"

Hermione bit her lower lip, which Pansy knew to take as acknowledgment. She gave her a victorious smirk, and leaned back against her tree once more. Charity was… well, she was very  _nice_. She was first to notice when someone felt bad, knew when anyone was having a hard time, and always had a word of support ready to cheer people up. And yet, despite all that, she took no bullshit from anyone. She would express her thoughts strongly, tell anyone what she thought was fair and what was not –with due consideration– and offer to yell at whomever had done others wrong.

Hermione liked her very much.

She did not think she would appreciate discovering they had murdered Draco Malfoy.

"Garcia's not Charity," she still pointed out. "And she sees the world very  _differently_."

Pansy snorted rudely at her euphemism and muttered, "crazy number obsession."

"Which works," Hermione defended, even though admitting it hurt her rational mind. She promised herself she would one day understand how Garcia's nonsensical theories came together to explain reality so well. "Do you think  _I_  could have modified the wards we placed at my parents' the way  _she_  did? I could barely understand her letter!"

"Yes, yes, weird Hufflepuff genius who got lost on her way to Ravenclaw. The hat probably got confused, what with all those numbers in her head…" Pansy ruffled her nose to illustrate her opinion.

"The point is, having Garcia would be extremely  _useful_. She's a talented witch, and she has a great sense for spell innovation. We have to get her to join," Hermione insisted.

She did not say it out loud, but Tracey was just a number. Useful, of course, but no more than anyone else. Luna and Garcia, however, were true  _weapons_. Between their ideas and her research skills, they had potential to tackle their enemies  _smartly_ and in unpredictable ways. Together with Pansy's viciousness, Hermione felt confident that such a group of four people had realistic chances to pose a threat to their enemies.

"And how do you plan on bringing up the topic? Remember how against it  _you_  were at first?" She did. Pansy was incredibly fond of reminding her, way more often than necessary. "No muggleborn will be easily swayed by our ideas."

"Garcia would," Hermione insisted. "She'll be awfully easy to convince," she replied smugly, and Pansy pursed her lips in that way that meant she was about to say something demeaning in regards to her intellect. "Garcia's compulsion toward numbers will be her downfall," she said, before Pansy could interrupt.

"Her  _downfall_ ," Pansy repeated, sounding sceptical. "Are you aware you sound like a  _film villain_?"

Hermione blushed. "Just listen to me, damn it. Charity uses her number obsession to manipulate – Yes, she does, don't look at me like that! Charity is not as two-dimensional as you believe. She used it to force Garcia into high-heels and, silly as it sounds, it sets a  _precedent_."

"Sure," Pansy agreed. She could express utter disdain with just an eyebrow, but when she decided to use all her facial muscles, it was like a slap on the face. "Get on high-hells, kill some classmate – Same thing, really."

Hermione shoved her strongly again. "Don't say it out loud," she hissed.

"Granger, we have so many privacy spells around we  _glitter_ ," she snapped back, miffed at being thrown out of balance  _twice_. "Anyone trying to look at us will get an ippilepsy attack."

"Epilepsy," she corrected. "And just be  _cautious_ ," she insisted.

Dumbledore might not have done anything about the blood magic, perhaps because of his conviction that they worked for Voldemort – she made a face just thinking of it; but murder would get them thrown into Azkaban.

"Look, if Garcia looks even remotely hesitant when I bring blood magic up, I'll obliviate her. I promise," she assured her. Pansy scowled. She sighed, and gave in. "And you can start to slowly test the waters with Tracey, in the meantime."

Pansy looked smugly satisfied as they shook hands, and Hermione wondered if she should have tried harder to get her way. Oh, well, Pansy had already trusted her with Luna; she could return the favour.

* * *

Pansy munched on her Liquorice Wand  _loudly_ , mostly because she knew it annoyed Jones no end. The Hufflepuff glared at her, too nervous about her nearing apparition exam to care much for Pansy's antics. Pansy smirked, relishing in the feeling of accomplishment; if only she could irritate her enough to make her fail… But Jones had the annoying habit of always somehow managing to worm her way into success, no matter how dim her initial prospects appeared.

"Given how you always flaunt your  _impeccable breeding_ , Parkinson, one would think it hadn't happened in a  _pigsty_ ," she finally snapped.

Pansy took a large bite very noisily. "Both good breeding and excellent taste," she started, trying to sound haughty – it was one of her best skills, "are not to be wasted on the  _lower_  classes." She emphasized on the word lower, because she knew Jones would take it as an insult to her short stature.

"Hence why you were taught neither," she said, and smiled in that sweet, good-girl way that made Pansy's blood boil.

Damn, the little bitch was good at comebacks. Pansy racked her brains hard, because she refused to lose when she had instigated the confrontation, but Tracey and Hermione came back before she could find something smart to say.

"How did it go?" Jones asked them, almost jumping in her eagerness to be the first to demonstrate interest in their results. Damned nicey-nice huffly-huff.

"Both passed!" Tracey said proudly, and Pansy could not help but smile.

Hermione was talent on legs and had magic to spare; it was a given. Personally, she was more pleased about Tracey's success, because she needed the girl to prove she was a competent witch for Hermione to see reason. Tracey would be a good addition to their coven.

"And Victoria?" Jones insisted.

"No idea," Tracey shrugged. "She took the test right before Hermione, but we don't know where she went."

"Probably saw seven of something somewhere else," Jones said thoughtfully. "It happens. She'll find her way back here, sooner or later."

"I think she passed," Hermione said in a rather defensive tone – probably because Pansy was throwing her very meaningful eyebrow wiggles meant to spell ' _crazy'_.

Jones looked genuinely relieved at the news, which made Pansy hate her a little more. It was evident that the only one amongst them with real chances to fail was Jones herself, why did she worry her little huffle-head about other people? How annoyingly empathetic.

Pansy missed her chance at a hurtful comment once more because Potter, of all people, decided to make an appearance. What was he even doing there? Everyone knew the chosen one's birthday was in late July – as if Witch Weekly did not have a fucking  _spread_  about the event every damned year.

"Hermione," he said, and she turned quickly, obviously surprised. The faint, hopeful glint in her eyes made Pansy angry – Hermione always hoped for a positive outcome, and Potter had yet to give her one. "I see you keep the same  _company_ ," he added bitterly, staring straight at Pansy.

" _Well_ ," Jones started in her characteristic, deceptively sweet voice, "could it be that Hermione simply appreciates people who actually  _speak to her_?"

Pansy had to admit she was startled by Jones' intervention. It had been obvious Potter had only had  _her_  in mind when choosing to start the exchange so confrontationally. Why would Jones jump in her defence? She disliked her as much as Potter did – and certainly with better reason.

Well, whatever, she would not miss her cue at a biting comment this time around.

"As if you could expect little Potty-Potts to make such a complex deduction by himself," Pansy told Jones, as patronisingly as she could manage. She then turned to face him, and said, "Should we illustrate it for you, you poor Gryffindor  _simpleton_? What might have driven sweet Hermione away?"

"Perhaps it was Weasley hooking up with her old  _bully_?" Jones suggested, artfully conveying equal parts fake curiosity and disdain.

"Or maybe your yelling at her without listening to her  _reasons_?" Pansy licked her lips as Potter's face went redder.

"Or could it be that she actually doesn't  _enjoy_  doing your homework?" Jones used a rather well-picked, innocent tone of disbelief for that one.

"Or –"

"Enough!" Hermione interrupted them, having gone quite red herself. She fixed a stern glare on them and waited until fully sure it had taken effect. Pansy raised her hands in surrender, and Jones scowled. "What is it, Harry?" she asked, turning to him, though her voice had recovered a sharper edge.

Pansy glanced at Jones and was pleased to see she felt as discomfited as herself about their unexpected and brief foray into cooperation. Then, Jones smiled and as Pansy was fearing the worst – that they had somehow bonded over the experience – she whispered, " _Inbred sow_." Pansy smirked back and answered with her own muttering, " _Doxy-seized pest."_  Tracey giggled in the background as Potter and Hermione were busy, a few steps away, talking to each other.

"Hagrid sent this letter," Potter told Hermione, "for the three of us." He handled her a piece of parchment.

Pansy snorted; there was no  _three_  of them anymore. She still refrained from further comment – Hermione had looked murderous enough the first time.

"Aragog?" answered Hermione in distaste. "He can't be serious." Potter grimaced. "That thing almost killed you two!"

Now, Pansy was interested. Anything that had almost killed Potter and Weasley ranked pretty high in her list of things to appreciate; and just below anything that  _managed_  to kill Potter and Weasley. Beside her, Tracey and Jones had also gone silent, nonchalantly eavesdropping on the conversation.

"You can't be thinking of going," Hermione told Potter, scandalized. "Security's a million times tighter now, you'll get into trouble," she cautioned him.

Pansy wanted to tell her to shut up and let him.

"Yeah – Ron said the same," Potter mumbled, still throwing hateful glances in Pansy's direction. "Don't think we'll go… But just letting you know. Letter's addressed to the three of us, after all."

Hermione nodded and said, "Thanks, Harry."

Potter left, still looking ragged and tense. Hermione watched him go, her expression forlorn, and Pansy still thought Potter looked the worst of the two – whatever he thought he was doing, keeping Hermione at an arm's length, she had no doubt it would backfire on him. Dumbledore might be of the idea Hermione was a bad influence, but Potter was certainly feeling her absence; the boy did not have a long list of friends, after all. Throwing away the little support he had seemed like a bad move, in her opinion.

In any case, Hermione's relationship with Potter was at a stalemate. They avoided each other unless necessary, and if it hurt the both of them, everyone chose to ignore it.

Hermione turned toward them sternly, ready for a harsh scolding. Before she could start, though, on how awful Pansy and Jones had been to poor dim-witted Potter, Tracey sneaked on her from behind and stole the parchment from her hand. Hermione protested strongly, but Tracey was agile and fast, and stepped around Hermione's attempts to retrieve it.

She read,

_Dear Harry, Ron and Hermione,_

_Aragog died last night. Harry and Ron, you met him, and you know how special he was. Hermione, I know you'd have liked him. It would mean a lot to me if you'd nip down for the burial later this evening. I'm planning on doing it round dusk, that was his favourite time of day. I know you're not supposed to be out that late, but you can use the Cloak. Wouldn't ask but I can't face it alone._

_Hagrid_

"A burial?" Jones asked. "Who's Aragog? Why's he being buried at Hogwarts?"

Hermione sighed and retrieved the letter, looking annoyed at them all; the girls tried to show their best apologetic expression, and only Jones kind of succeeded.

"A giant acromantula," Hermione reluctantly admitted.

Tracey's eyes went wide as saucers, unused as she was to Hermione's past adventures. Pansy was curious too, since she had never heard about that one.

"Potter and Weasley were almost killed by a giant acromantula?" Jones asked in alarm. "When was that?"

"Ah – second year, when I was petrified. Long story… Good thing it's dead, if you ask me," she told them.

"And now they're invited to its funeral? How fucked up is that?" Tracey asked, summarizing their feelings rather nicely.

"Hence why they're not going," Hermione rolled her eyes and pocketed the piece of parchment.

But Pansy had other ideas.

She had never encountered an acromantula, of course; they were vicious, dangerous, men-eating spiders. Highly venomous, utterly deadly, almost impossible to approach while alive. Attempts had been made to keep them in controlled reserves in order to milk their venom, with devastating results – more than a dozen deaths in a single night.

Their venom was more than a hundred Galleons a pint – even more if sold, let us say,  _behind the scenes_.

Now, Pansy was not a  _beggar_ , for she had her mother's dowry vaults, but the small fortune within them was nothing compared to her previous standards of wealth. A little extra here and there would certainly not hurt; and the thing was  _dead_  after all. Would it not be a waste to pass this opportunity for some easy enrichment?

"What's this nasty glint in your eye?" Jones asked, suspicious. Damn her observation and people-reading skills; the tiny dwarf never missed a thing.

"What are you thinking of?" Hermione asked. "You're not planning to get Harry into trouble, are you?"

Ah, another suspicious one… Had she no friends who thought well of her? How hurtful, really.

"Of course not." Pansy scoffed at the thought. As if she would trouble herself with that idiot.

Three pairs of eyes fastened on her as if asking, "then what?" Pansy had no problem with telling Hermione, of course, but the others… Well, she would much rather keep the acromantula all to herself, to be honest. However, she did want to invite Tracey into their coven, and not answering now would damage their budding relationship. And Jones… Well, goody-goody huffly-huffles would surely not have impure thoughts such as  _greed_ , would she?

"Acromantula venom is a  _rare_  ingredient," she said, glancing at her half-eaten nails. "Ministry regulated, too."

None of the girls were dumb enough to miss her point. Jones –of course– gasped, Tracey looked thankfully uninterested, and Hermione… Bless her Hermione, her mouth slowly twisted into a calculating smile.

"You want to  _steal_  it?" Jones asked shrilly.

"The oaf's going to bury it, Jones," she retorted. "Such a fucking waste."

"It could be a useful ingredient to store," Hermione pointed out, testing the girls' reactions. Tracey did not care, and Jones looked surprised. Hermione hurried to embellish her posture, "Dangerous times are coming," she told Jones, whose expression darkened. "You never know when you might need a – well, a  _poison_."

Surprisingly, Jones nodded, lips pressed into a grim line.

"Of course," she said, "you're right. You've a right to defend yourself," she added sympathetically.

Now that… That was extremely unexpected. She had pegged Jones for the rule-abiding type, the inflexible sort that would narrow her eyes at any mention of  _unorthodox_  methods. Apparently, a true Hufflepuff's empathy and loyalty meant quite something else; a tendency toward overlooking illegalities in favour of a friend's benefit.

"Jones!" came Wayne Hopkin's strong voice, startling them all. "Your turn," he said, smiling happily as he reached them, slightly out of breath. He must have passed.

"Oh, darn it!" she exclaimed, hurrying to stand. Apparently, with all the commotion, Jones had forgot her turn was nearing.

"Jones," Pansy called as she was already leaving. "Don't forget the three D's!" Jones looked awkwardly bemused at her unprecedented helpfulness. Then, Pansy pettily added, "Distraction, Displacement and Desperation!"

Good thing the examiners were waiting for her, else Jones might have thrown a curse or two her way – her nostrils flared rather comically, and her hand hovered over her wand pocket for a second, before she turned around and ignored her words. Pansy sniggered until Hermione and Tracey punched one of her arms each, and then she yelped; Hermione was an utter weakling, but Tracey packed a mean punch.

"So," Tracey said, stealing a bit of Pansy's Liquorice Wand and ignoring her protests, "we're getting ourselves some of this venom tonight?"

Pansy glanced in Hermione's direction, and she nodded. "It might be a good idea." None of them elaborated further on why.

"When do we meet?" Tracey insisted, eyes glinting.

It occurred to Pansy that she was trying hard to make sure she was not excluded from the  _fun_.

"Let's discuss it when Charity and Garcia come back," Hermione said.

Tracey nodded, proud and satisfied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Action coming soon!
> 
> Thanks for reading and Happy Holidays, everyone!


	19. Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains various literary quotes. They're treated as such in the text (explicitly enough, I believe) though I don't mention the author names. If interested, anyone can find them through an easy google search.

**Coven. Ch. 19: Plan**

Vicky felt like throwing up.

She was a young woman of many talents, but she had the misfortune of sucking big time at anything that implied lifting her feet off the ground – and both flying and apparition fell within that category. Well, perhaps apparition was not what one would classically classify as "feet off the ground", but bending space-time continuum certainly entailed a physical disconnection with the land presently defined as ground.

Whatever, she felt sick; she needed not justify the inherent discontinuity of teleportation to herself.

She had passed the damned exam, thankfully, but would not be trusting her own skills anytime soon. Maybe she could spend her life using the floo, or side-alonging; at least with those there was no risk of splinching by dizziness. If she bugged Charity enough, would she help her pop-up to her appointments on time? Ah, she would, but she might whine endlessly about it; tough choice.

Hidden away behind the Three Broomsticks, where she had scurried off to in case her stomach revolted, she heard three loud  _cracks_  and two terrible screams as her classmates passed and failed the test. Fifteen minutes might have been enough for the worst of the feeling to go away, but she waited seventeen because – well, was it not obvious?

She finally felt clear-headed enough to go find out whether Charity had passed – she supposed she had; for all her lack of confidence, she was a hardworking witch. But ah, there were four fat, ugly pigeons on her way to the main street, and so she turned left instead of right.

She went around the building, planning to return to the exam location through the narrow passage between the Three Broomsticks and The Magic Neep, but as she was about to turn she heard the long, sad hoot of an owl – it flew toward her from behind Tomes and Scrolls, flapped her impressive wings once, twice, thrice and… Oh gods, it looked ready to gouge her eyes out. She ducked into a tight and cramped alleyway and the beast flew past, followed by angry, quick steps.

"And tell Yaxley to fucking  _fuck off_!" came the strong, unmistakable, angry voice of Blaise Zabini. He stopped right in front of her narrow hide-hole, wand raised in the owl's direction, a crumpled piece of parchment in his left hand.

He cursed loudly a couple more times, waving his fist against the sky. Then he turned on his heels – toward his left, and not his right, and therefore saw her standing there. For a couple heartbeats, they both kept still, staring at each other. His face morphed away from anger, but he certainly did not seem  _happy_. Well, to be fair, Zabini never seemed happy about anything – at most, he looked mockingly pleased when someone else screwed up – but this time, his expression was  _grave_.

"Fuck." It must have been his favourite word.

Then he raised his wand at her.

She had to admit she panicked a little. She was a good student, and knew her fair share of spells, but she was mostly a  _theoretician_ ; she had never, ever duelled anyone outside of a classroom. And those practice rounds in which someone casted a set spell and the other raised a shielding charm could not possibly count.

" _Obliviate_!" Zabini waved his arm without hesitation.

She ducked as fast as she could, the flash of green light going over her head. Her right knee impacted the ground and she winced, but still searched for her wand in her pocket while  _thinking_  hard about her options. Within her narrow alley, she could only move in two directions – forward or backwards. If she turned to run, she would give him her back: bad idea. If she ran backwards while casting – could she even pull that? Bad idea. Forwards, though…

It was a good thing she was a quick thinker.

She jumped forwards from her crouched position, her knee complaining at the strain. She collided heavily against his abdomen, arms crossed in front of her. Luckily, he had not seen the move coming, and it took him by surprise.

The hit left him briefly breathless, and her inertia brought him to the ground. As he clutched his mid-section, he prepared to cast again, but it seemed pretty obvious to her that Zabini was not used to duelling either; she got her spell out faster.

" _Immobulus_!"

He was frozen mid-action, sitting on the cold stone, legs folding as if preparing to stand, wand arm stretched in her direction.

She stood still and tense, wand grasped way too tightly, until she was certain he could not move. She finally allowed herself to breathe, aware of her quickened heartbeats and shaking limbs. She had never even  _jinxed_  anyone – Hufflepuffs did not hex each other, they talked like damned  _human beings_ , and the couple times older students had given her trouble for being muggleborn, Charity had turned their hair into a bird's nest.  _Angry_  birds.

It was not like she did not know duelling spells, she was good at them – in  _class_. She had once written a five feet dissertation on combative usage of mundane charms such as  _tergeo_ ,  _colovaria_  and  _reparo_. Flitwick had gone as far as badgering Dumbledore about getting her resorted into Ravenclaw.

But nothing could have prepared her for how very different it felt like in real life; so  _adrenaline_  inducing. She was not made to deal with adrenaline; her body had not generated any since the last time Madame Hooch had managed to get her on a broom.

It just occurred to her how  _dangerous_  it could have been. Zabini had chosen a simple memory charm, but he could have used a myriad of terrible spells. Had she been slower, she could be  _dead_. Not that she thought another student would murder her… but what if it had been a  _real_  duel?

How terrifying.

She lowered her gaze until she met Zabini's dark, furious one. Immobilized as he was, his eyes remained free and expressive. He was growing angrier. Ah, but what could he do about it? About his anger? About his need to show disdain and imply superiority with every single gesture of his perfect body?  _Nothing_. He had lost, he was the one in danger now.

Was it not  _him_ , who should be terrified?

She was standing, she was moving, she was  _free_. He was  _not_. An electrifying feeling crawled down from her brain and into her limbs, dancing through her nerves until her fingers tingled. Her heart raced once more, and adrenaline – or perhaps something else, similar but warmer, flooded her body.

She took a step forward, standing over his half-extended legs. His eyes flickered with a sudden burst of – was it  _fear_?

It should be fear.

Her tongue flicked out of her mouth and made a snapping, wet sound against her lips. Her body was itching still. Standing there, looking down on his worried face, she felt  _powerful_.

Perhaps it was the way the situation was absolutely under her control. She could deal with the unexpected of everyday life – albeit, sometimes, difficultly – but she felt her best in front of the completely controlled variables of an experiment. The way they stood, the roles they were taking on, made her feel as if he were her test subject.

And such a beautiful test subject he made.

She crouched down, getting closer to him, deliberately slow. She took note of the way his muscles tensed – for immobilization generally allowed a slight freedom for reflex – the way his eyes followed her every move in dreading anticipation, the faint tremble of his throat – Addam's apple bobbing.

He expected her to do something – would she not have left already, otherwise? To be honest, she  _wanted_  to do something. She wanted to run her hands on the symmetric perfection that was his face. She wanted to check whether it spread as far as his chest.

He would  _hate_  it if she did.

Her nerves tingled again. The warmth lingered.

She breathed in and his perfume filled her lungs, intoxicating. She realized she was trembling again. She clenched her hands and clung to the thought that what she was doing was madness, true madness – unlike the numbers, this particular  _obsession_  was dangerous. She had to stop herself.

She shook her head and, quick and light as if it were no big deal, she poked his nose with her index finger. With a smile, she whispered, "Cooties."

She could hear the loudness of his breathing as she left.

* * *

Blaise blindly rushed into the Slytherin Common Room, rubbing his nose furiously, as if the repeated touch could somehow erase the feel of  _her_. It certainly could not. His nose hurt – sore from the friction – and yet he could still picture it in his mind: the coldness of her fingers.

He hurried up to his room, scrunching his nose and overly aware of it. He let the door close behind himself with a loud  _bang_  and Theodore was so startled he dropped the book in his hands.

"What the –  _Blaise_?" his friend scowled. "The fuck's wrong with you now?"

Blaise glared back at him, annoyed that Theo could not – somehow – read his distress. The bastard was observant when it came to Pansy, so why not now? Did he need to grow breasts to draw his bloody attention?

"That crazy mudblood cursed me!" Blaise snarled. His blood was rushing, he was panicking; when would the effects show?

Theo's brows shot up, and he suddenly looked way more empathetic.

"Granger?" he asked, standing to get closer.

"What?" Blaise was surprised. Why would Theo assume such a thing? He snorted, momentarily amused. "I know they all look the same, but there's more vermin around," he told him. "You fucking sound like  _Malfoy_ ," he spat. The prat had been so obsessed with Potter's mudblood, Blaise was half convinced he secretly wanted to screw her.

Theo's brow furrowed.

"If you're going to be such a fucking pain about it, I'm out," he told him, sitting back on his bed and getting the book from the floor.

Blaise was close to answering with yet another scathing remark, but he stopped himself in time. Theo was right, he was acting like a right bastard. It was that bitch's fault, and not his friend's – making him pay was unfair. He ruffled his hair, frustrated.

Fuck, would he have to apologize?

He hated apologizing.

"No – you're right," he told him, trying to sound contrite while conveying his urgency. "But mate, I'm  _cursed_." Panic was clear in his voice. "And it was one I'd never heard before."

Theo raised his eyes, still pissed off, though it was easy to see concern was gaining ground in his mind. He finally sighed, rather dramatically in Blaise's opinion, and beckoned him to come closer.

"Who, then?" he asked.

"Mudblood in Arithmancy and Runes," he told him. It was not like he knew her name, after all. She was in his Astronomy class too, but Theo had not taken that elective.

"Hufflepuff?" Theo asked, visibly racking his brains. "Goes around with Pansy's lot, lately?"

Blaise nodded. Yes, he thought she was a Hufflepuff – it fit, what with her being a mudblood. And she was definitely in Pansy's new gang of low-breed miscreants.

"What did she do?" he asked, taking out his wand and hitting Blaise with a few, simple diagnostic spells.

Blaise had an inkling of how Theo had learnt those – or developed the need to learn them – and the thought turned his mood dark yet again. Still, this was not the moment to commiserate with Theo's home life.

"No fucking idea," Blaise admitted. "But she spoke the incantation out loud," he smiled smugly. Little idiot girl, she should have said it less clearly, if she was unable to do it non-verbally. "And she  _touched_  me."

"Incantation?" Theo asked, after none of his diagnostics were triggered.

" _Cooties_ ," Blaise repeated carefully.

Theo shook his head. "Never heard of it," he admitted. "But it can't be anything too dark," he guessed. Theo patted his shoulder, trying to cheer him up. "Let's check the Library, she might have learnt it there. Are you feeling any different?"

Blaise shook his head, but still felt grave. Not all curses had immediate effects. He should know it well; he had met his mother.

* * *

Pansy sat behind one of the greenhouses. She was hidden under the many privacy spells Hermione had taught her, lest an Auror decided to drop by. Not that it was likely – they patrolled the exits and entrances to the castle, and the far-away edges of the wards. Still and quiet in the middle of the grounds, she would most likely go unnoticed.

Pansy lifted her wrist, and the metallic chain clinked – it was warm again. On the back of the plate it held, an engraved sentence read, " _Waiting is the great vocation of the dispossessed_." Pansy resisted the urge to roll her eyes – Hermione was really invested in her quotes idea, it seemed. How utterly paranoid of her.

She  _waited_ , as per instructed.

The  _protean charm_  Hermione had implemented on the bracelet was impressive work. N.E.W.T. level, and she had mastered it during their fifth year, without any sort of magical enhancement. Damned precocious, book-wormy little genius – she smiled, feeling proud. Her girl was good, after all.

Sadly, the bracelet was linked to five others, and not just Hermione's. Inspired by the galleons Dumbledore's Army had used a year before, Hermione had come up with a quick means of communication to ensure they could all sneak out of the Castle and meet outdoors. Whenever one of the bracelets was transfigured to spell something different, the change carried to the rest.

Extremely useful.

Too bad the change could not be carried to only  _one_  of the bracelets – Hermione had assured her this would be her next project, a proper modification of the  _protean_. She was looking forward to it.

A rustling of leaves had Pansy tensing, despite her blind faith in Hermione's ability to guide her safely.

"Pansy," said the girl herself, "drop the  _disillusionment_   _charm_  and let me join you inside the wards."

She did as told, a smile twisting her lips. She would never tell her, but she missed her – those moments when it was just the two of them as it had been during Christmas. She was glad she had decided to come herself, as the  _second_ , and allow them a little privacy.

"Who's next?" Pansy asked, "Garcia?"

Hemione nodded. "She's coming with Charity. This way she can be kept on track – Not  _that_  face again, Pansy," she said without even looking. "Garcia has her issues, but if you just heard her ideas on how to modify the  _protean_ …"

Pansy rolled her eyes as Hermione unfolded the Marauder's Map and searched for the Hufflepuff Common Room. She had used it to guide Pansy to the greenhouses, and to get there herself; hopefully, Potter would not have an epiphany and need the thing on that particular night.

Her wrist got warmer as the bracelets changed to spell, " _It's the friends we meet along the road that help us appreciate the journey._ " Those were the keywords they had agreed on to indicate a change of  _puppet_ , as Garcia had called them. It meant Pansy's turn was over, and the second started. The order, they had also agreed on beforehand: Pansy, Garcia and Jones, Lovegood and then Tracey.

According to Hermione, as long as the engraved sentence was innocuous enough, they could claim the items were "friendship bracelets". Apparently, a literary quote, especially if it could pass for what Hermione had called  _motivational_ , was the best choice to avoid suspicion.

Motivational, friendship bracelets. How fucking  _quaint_. How terribly  _sweet_. How awfully  _Hufflepuff_. She bet Jones loved the things no end.

Hermione had insisted on using the damned quotes whenever possible, in case one of them was caught. Pansy thought it was fairly unlikely that a professor would check their wrists while issuing detention, but was willing to follow Hermione's instructions if only to avoid another lecture on safety measures and the dangers of discovery.

A cold breeze blew by and they snuggled closer to each other. Pansy took a glance at the map and checked the positions of the patrolling Aurors – what a wonderful invention that piece of parchment was, that allowed them to bypass Ministry-imposed security. After the night was over, she would ask Hermione to focus on replicating the map itself, before improving the  _protean_. Now  _that_  would be useful.

Warm wrist again, and it read, " _Keep going, keep growing._ " Pansy snorted. Jones and Garcia's dots exited the Hufflepuff common room, since the keyword " _go_ " had appeared, and made their way toward the exit.

"Do you have one ready for  _run for your lives_?" Pansy asked mockingly. If they were about to run into a professor, would Hermione still waste time searching for a literary way to warn them?

Hermione scowled at yet another thinly-veiled criticism to her quote idea. She sneered, an expression she was slowly mastering, and said, " _Fly, you fools_!"

Pansy frowned, unaware if that silly thing was a real quote or Hermione having her on. Anyway, it was neither a friendly nor a motivational quote and she was about to point it out when Hermione gasped loudly.

"Snape's moving!" she suddenly said, startling her. "He's – Ah!" She locked eyes with her, and whispered, "He's disappeared!"

"What?" Pansy asked, forgetting their squabble. "What do you mean _, disappeared_?"

"The map – It only tracks people within the rooms and corridors the Marauders knew. Remember how the Room of Requierements didn't show?" Pansy nodded. "Snape must be somewhere similar! Look," she asked, and pointed at Snape's rooms. "He disappeared from here," she said, moving her finger to a nearby wall on the map.

"A passageway?" Pansy suggested. Hermione nodded, grave. "And now he could pop out anywhere," she deduced. Unless he had a secret potions lab near his rooms, which was another possibility. Still, the risk was worth considering.

Being caught by  _Snape_  would be ugly. Any other professor, she thought they could fool easily enough. That man, though… He could see straight into your soul, grasp at your truths, burn through your lies and, afterwards, make you pay for your impudence.

Snape was not to be taken lightly.

Hermione's gaze went toward the girl's dots, "They're almost out," she said. "I'll make them hide behind the Snidget-hunting tapestry. I want to see if Snape comes out somewhere else first."

Hermione spread the whole map open, laying it down on the ground. Both she and Pansy searched for Snape's name everywhere, hearts beating fast. Pansy wondered why – if it was truly the case – he would feel the need to use a secret corridor to move through the Castle when, as a professor, he could go anywhere he desired. Or perhaps… Was there somewhere he was  _not_  allowed to go?

"Here!" exclaimed Pansy, her hunch proving correct. "He's out of the grounds!"

"Out?" Hermione asked. Then she took one deep, loud breath. "Could it be… Of course!" she exclaimed. "He's bypassing the  _aurors_! Pansy," she shared worriedly, "It could be a  _meeting_."

Pansy's blood froze at the thought. Death Eaters. Snape was marked – not rumoured to be, but  _marked_ ; a dark, blurry, bulgy scar carved into his arm. Hermione had seen it with her own eyes.

If there was a meeting right now… would  _he_  be there?

Pansy's hand snuck into her own pocket and found the smoothed parchment of his father's letter. She had not told Hermione about the summons yet, for lack of privacy. She wanted to keep her unfortunate  _engagement_  a secret, if possible, at least amongst their group – if Jones showed her even a bit of sympathy she would slash her own wrists.

She briefly hesitated – was now a good time? Hermione looked frazzled, Jones and Garcia's dots were approaching. She sighed. She would find time later on to share her miseries.

* * *

Luna smiled happily as her wrist grew warmer. Yes, she had missed the DA's charmed galleons… but friendship bracelets sounded way nicer, right? She had friends! She skipped all the way down to the greenhouses. She was excited – they were going to visit an acromantula. Pity it had already crossed the veil. At least, Hermione had promised, it was a  _giant_  one. She had read that acromantulas ate their deceased, which meant not many were lucky enough to contemplate a giant specimen, dead or alive.

She joined the girls – Hermione had a spot already warmed through charms, ready for her – and settled comfortably to wait for Tracey. At her right, Pansy and Charity were bickering – something about the proper way to get rid of warts. At her left, Vicky was badgering Hermione about Harry's Map – she wanted to know all the details. Hermione, though, was far more preoccupied with tracing Tracey's position.

Luna sat between them and revelled in the noisy chatter. Silence sometimes made her feel lonely. She let her eyes wander toward the sky – Mars was bright, and Venus shadowy. She frowned. She knew Divination was not as objective as Arithmancy, but she was not one to discriminate any disciplines – she might have to check her books, but she thought the planets hinted at impending doom. Or was it great happenings? She would need to consult Professor Firenze; centaurs had a truly fascinating grasp on the fickleness of celestial bodies.

Tracey arrived, out of breath, and regaled them with the tale of her smooth avoidance of the patrolling Head Girl. She already looked excited with the prospect of some action. Luna thought the night was unlikely to be as eventful as her last adventure in the Department of Mysteries but, who knew? She might be reading the planets correctly, after all.

"All right, here's what we'll do," Hermione instructed. "Hagrid's burying Aragog beside the pumpkin patch – in that deep pit. While some of us gather venom, the rest can check the map for Hagrid's moves. When he comes out of the hut, we hide – the pumpkins are large enough. Then, we'll make our way back to the castle as he's distracted."

Luna nodded. It was a simple plan, after all. Two or three of them could have pulled it off with ease, but she personally thought this adventure was more about bonding than results. In the end, she and Vicky would be happy as long as they got to see an acromantula with their own eyes. And Charity and Tracey simply hated being left out.

They headed to the patch once Hermione had deemed the way safe enough, and soon the magnificent shape of the largest spider she had ever seen stood against the falling sun. She smiled – how impressive! It was the size of an elephant! She would have to owl her father to share the experience.

"Wow," Vicky whispered by her side, "that thing is huge. No wonder it eats people…"

"Most large acromantulas are capable of speech," Luna shared, also excited. Vicky whistled, impressed.

" _Awesome_ ," she said. "How wicked is it, that a spider speaks  _human_?"

_Very_ , Luna thought, but as Hermione hurried them to hide behind Aragog's large form, they were distracted away from the conversation. Luna still wondered; could they magically speak any language? Had they the  _gift_  of communication? Or had Aragog learnt English, in particular, from Hagrid? She would have to visit him and ask.

Hermione handed her a small vial after asking if she wanted to take some for herself, and walked away. Luna approached the spider. Its fangs were as large as elephant tusks, its eyes as big as her open palms, it's hairs as long as Pansy's bob cut. How gorgeous!

Tracey was already attempting to milk some venom – she pressed the tip of the majestic fangs against the thinly-spread leather covering her bottle, and they both waited. Nothing happened.

"Try massaging the venom glands," Luna suggested.

"Where are they?" Tracey asked, afraid to poke the acromantula in the wrong place.

"Here," Luna said, and pressed strongly against the sides of the fangs. "Just exert force against the tip with the edge of the leather," she asked her.

Luna had only ever milked venom from a Runespoor's right head, on a summer holiday to Burkina Faso, but she hoped milking spiders would not be too different. If the massage did not work, she was pretty sure she knew a spell for electric stimulation – Aragog had not been dead for long, its muscles should respond well to stimuli.

"I think I'm going to throw up," Charity admitted, and left the scene quickly to join Hermione and Vicky, who were monitoring the map behind a particularly large pumpkin.

Pansy did not jump at the chance to mock Charity, which Luna thought was telling. She was most likely feeling queasy herself, even though her pride prevented an open display of her feelings.

"Oh – It's coming out!" Tracey exclaimed.

Luna peeked curiously and saw a white, dense substance flow out slowly. She redoubled her massaging efforts. After successfully filling the small vial to the brim, they interchanged positions – Tracey was far stronger, physically.

They had reached a good, stable rhythm when a hushed gasp startled them. Charity quickly ran up toward them, looking worried, dodging the smaller pumpkins in her way.

"Potter's coming down!" she said.

"What?" Pansy shrieked. "Why?" She cursed loudly. "Why can't the damned idiot ever stay put?"

"He said he wouldn't!" Tracey added in indignation.

"Let's go," Luna said, and they scurried away from the body.

Pansy, however, ran  _up_  instead of down. Ignoring Hermione's sharp, whispered, "Pansy!" she climbed the stone slabs that led to the back door of Hagrid's hut. She hid behind a corner, crouched between pieces of chopped wood and what looked like sacks of barley. From there, she gestured them to hide, and they did – Harry was getting too close to risk it.

The girls crowded around Hermione, everyone trying to get a good look at the map, following his position. Thankfully, Pansy stayed put. Long minutes passed, Harry joined Hagrid inside the hut, and finally Pansy trekked down to join them.

"It's easy to eavesdrop," she told them, "That window's no good, believe me."

"And?" Charity asked her, echoing all their thoughts.

"Potter said Slughorn's coming down, too," she said, scowling. "Where's he now, Granger? Can we get some more before he gets here?"

"Slughorn?" Tracey asked, frowning heavily.

"He's already on his way to the grounds," Vicky chimed in. "I don't think we can make it."

Pansy cursed with eloquence and Charity's brows went up. Luna did agree it was a pity – if Harry and Professor Slughorn had stayed inside the Castle, they would have had more time to study the fabulous specimen.

"So," Tracey said, eyes glistening, "Slughorn's been avoiding Potter for a century, and now they're attending a spider's funeral together?"

Oh, why would Professor Slughorn avoid Harry? Harry was a delightfully nice person, if a bit oblivious at times. Hermione's surly expression seemed to indicate she shared her opinion.

"He's avoiding his own student?" Charity asked, disapproving. "Why?"

"Oh, that's right – You're not in potions either," Tracey realized. "You've missed Potter's  _Lag-behind Show,_ " she said with a mean smile. "He's been trying to corner Slughorn after Potions class for  _months_!"

The girls gossiped as Tracey shared all her observations on Harry's behaviour. Luna wondered, too, what he could possibly want from Slughorn that their professor was not willing to give. Her mind spun tales of secret potions, rare ingredients – perhaps something like the horns of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks? Moon-frog tongues? Unicorn tears?

"And you should see Potter, too," Pansy added, scrunching her nose. "Smiling like a madman, so fucking cheerful – I reckon he's  _high_."

That, or  _euphoria nargles_ , Luna thought as she nodded along.

* * *

Hermione was not satisfied with the way the day had evolved. First, Tracey's interception of her letter, along with Pansy's suggestion, had brought the whole group to sneak out of the Castle. Security was tighter than ever. Aurors swarmed about like bees around their hive. Dumbledore thought she and Pansy were some sort of junior Death Eaters. Snape was starting to look at them with a  _cautious_  glint in his eyes.

No, it was not the best timing.

Hermione did agree that collecting the rare ingredient could be extremely useful –  _Moste Potente Potions_  had an impressive amount of suggestions on how to use it, each nastiest than the last. The problem, in her opinion, rested in  _numbers_. How could a six-girl group be  _sneaky_? They were far too many for her taste. She felt like she was leading a bunch of excitable girl-scouts.

And if they were caught, would Dumbledore place the rest of girls under his scrutiny? He must know they were friends – but plain friendship and sneaking around after curfew were very different things. This was the whole reason she had insisted Pansy and Tracey sneaked separately – better diminish the chances of connection.

Still, she had done crazier things. If everything went as planned, this night adventure had reasonable chances of success.

Oh, but no! Harry had  _lied_.

And now they were stuck listening to Slughorn's sycophantic, obviously fake monologue.  _King of arachnids_ , Hermione snorted, how  _poetic_. Hagrid's howling cries occasionally covered the man's voice, and Hermione could not help but feel a little sympathetic. Harry might have ruined their plans, but at least Hagrid would spend the night in some company. He sounded like he needed it.

As the burial went on, Hermione pondered on Tracey's words. She had been way too busy thinking on how to return to the school undiscovered, so it was good their friend had been observant enough to point it out – why was Slughorn there? Well, the reason was obvious: one-hundred galleons a pint.

What was not obvious was why Harry had been the one to bring him along. And that's where the night became interesting, as Tracey suggested:

"I reckon Potter's this happy because he's got Slughorn in his pocket now," she said, satisfied. She had been following the Harry-Slughorn drama for a while now, she was definitely invested. "Potter offered him venom, and got something in exchange."

"Whatever he wanted from Professor Slughorn in the first place!" Charity jumped in, nodding sagely.

Hermione thought this was the most  _unlike_ -Harry ploy she had ever heard – too close to Slytherin cunning, and plain bribery. She doubted either Harry or Ron had come up with it; why would any of them know the market price of acromantula venom? Something smelled definitely  _fishy_  there.

The men walked back inside – Slughorn most likely quite a few galleons richer – and Hermione suggested the girls start heading back. It was getting late – no one was opposed to it. As she guided them through the Hogwarts corridors one by one, her mind was far more preoccupied with thoughts of Harry's motives, and the nature of his machinations. The light that spilled through Hagrid's back window called to her, and she grew impatient.

Pansy noticed her unrest, of course – she could feel it through their bond. They locked eyes, and Hermione shook her head at the unasked question. They could speak freely at another time.

"Go," she told her once she was the only one left. "I'll be the last." Pansy eyed her with suspicion, and so she added, "The longer we're out here in the open, the bigger the chances I'll get a  _stroke_. Go!"

Pansy was not fooled. "You know I can tell, don't you?" she said, not pleased. "You've got this scrunched-up face you make when you're thinking too hard." She re-enacted the expression in a rather unflattering manner.

"Pansy –" Hermione knew they had no time for this conversation, not when they could be using it more wisely. Arguing with Pansy was always long and arduous, and generally a completely fruitless endeavour.

"Let's just go eavesdrop under that fucking window already," she told her, and Hermione blushed at being read so easily.

They climbed up again. Slughorn and Hagrid were singing loudly – that, they had been able to tell all the way down from behind the pumpkins. Now, they heard the lyrics spoke about  _Odo the hero_ , a dying wizard.

"Potter's not drinking," Pansy noticed after yet another long verse.

The older men were plain drunk but, even though Harry seemed extremely happy, his eyes were not glassy, his expression was sere enough. And then, clear proof – Harry grinned to himself and, unnoticed by the others, he pointed his wand under the table at the emptying bottles, which immediately began to refill.

"The good die young!" Hagrid slurred, taking another large sip. "Your mum an' dad, Harry…" Fat tears, larger than Hermione had ever witnessed, oozed from his eyes; he grasped Harry's arm and shook it. "Bes' wiz and witchard o' their age I never knew… terrible thing… terrible thing…"

Slughorn sang the last verse  _solo_ , without much skill, and Hagrid fell asleep amongst grunts and soft whispers of "terrible."

"Rude," Pansy huffed, when Slughorn asked Harry whether he remembered his parents' deaths. Indeed, tactless of him, but sadly unsurprising – too many people had a morbid interest in the fate of the Potters.

"Why's Harry even answering?" Hermione wondered. They had been friends for more than five years, and she could swear he had never told the story to anyone beside Ron and herself.

"Is it true?" Pansy shared at least some interest, though she looked half horrified. "Potter's father died first? His mother needn't die?" she frowned. "How can he remember?"

Hermione shook her head. "He doesn't. Voldemort told him himself," she admitted.

Pansy flinched at the name and shoved her in retaliation. Hermione shoved her back silently, as they both listened on. They spoke of Harry's mother – Slughorn sang her praises, and Harry took the chance to go for the jugular.

"But you won't help her son," they heard him say, "She gave me her  _life_ , but you won't give me a  _memory_."

A memory.

Hermione's brain made the connection, quick now that enough information was on the table. Of course. How obvious it seemed now. Harry using smart ploys, cornering Slughorn, wanting something from a professor –  _Dumbledore_  had to be behind it. He was moving the strings, using him and his Boy-Who-Lived fame to trick Slughorn into giving his secrets away.

"Dumbledore needs information," Harry went on, confirming her suspicions. "I need information."

Both Pansy and herself held their breaths, waiting. It felt as if the tiniest move on their part could break the moment, hide the truth away from them forever.

"I am the chosen one. I need to kill him. I need that memory."

As far as lapidary phrases went, it was powerful. Masterfully chosen. Hermione was impressed. Harry's perfect acting came to a close. Professor Slughorn shook, eyes watery.

"I am not proud…" he whispered through his pudgy fingers, "I am ashamed of what – of what that memory shows… I think I might have done great damage that day…"

Hermione's heart beat fast, ideas rushing through her brain. What could it be, that was so terrible? That Dumbledore himself ignored, and wished to know? Something that could play a key role in Voldemort's defeat, something the chosen one  _needed_.

Whatever it was, she needed it too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't like everything in this chapter, but I've touched it way too many times, so here it goes. Thanks a lot for reading, all the favourites, follows and comments! And happy 2019!


	20. Prize

**Coven. Ch. 20: Prize**

Severus left the Dark Lord's rooms unscathed. That alone was reason for celebration, for his Lord had a difficult temperament, and a propensity for cursing before listening to excuses.

Vaughan Crabbe went out after him, limping and afflicted with residual trembling – the scars of the  _cruciatius_. He should have known better than to beg for clemency for his dimwitted son. Severus let the smirk flourish; he needed not hide his satisfaction any longer. The Dark Lord had granted him his wishes, unbeknownst to the man himself. That was the key, Severus found, to successfully dealing with Lord Voldemort: allowing him to believe his choice was optimal, and yet one you would not have chosen yourself.

Not that Severus disagreed with squeezing young Crabbe's brain dry, but he had learned to  _lie_  and  _act_  with the years. Now the man hobbling behind him thought Severus had tried to protect his son. Now, if Crabbe's mind ended up destroyed, he would not be blamed by his family.

"Severus," the man begged lamely, his voice breaking with the strength of the after-shocks. "My son…"

Severus nodded, grave. Making enemies for the sake of it was idiocy – better to  _feign_  sympathy. Vaughan might believe him his ally, but if his son had murdered Draco, Severus would crush his empty skull with his own hands.

He left him behind. He had early Defence with the O.W.L. students, and just the thought of Lovegood and that empty-headed, cauldron-melting Pembroke had him on edge. He tried to scurry off unseen, dodging his unsavoury cronies as he navigated the well-known web of rooms and corridors that made Malfoy Manor.

His eyes darted toward the imposing portraits on the walls; generations upon generations of Malfoys reminding him of his failure. It certainly was unsettling, how much they resembled Lucius. He had yet to see him in person since the break-out from Azkaban – he knew the man would be the very picture of misery; his son had been killed to atone for his failures.

He hastened his pace.  _Narcissa_  was someone else he wished to avoid – the guilt, if he saw her tear-struck face once more, would eat him alive. He promised himself he would seek her once he knew the identity of Draco's murderer. She deserved to avenge her only son, and he would assist her himself if necessary.

In his hastiness to get out of that miserable place he failed to avoid the small drawing room beside the grand staircase. He could not have known beforehand, for the man had spent half his life in jail, but it was Rabastan Lestrange's favourite spot in the house.

"Snape," he said, startling him. He had been drinking in the darkness, slouched on a tall chair, almost invisible.

"Lestrange," he acknowledged, and tried to walk on.

Lestrange laughed – a broken, raspy sound that even he found unnerving. It was not the laugh of a sane man.

"Spare a minute for an old comrade," he asked him. "Answer me a couple questions."

Severus forced his thoughts behind his occlumency shields. Lestrange might be insane, but he could make a dangerous foe.

"I'm pushed for time, Lestrange." He sneered. It would not do to let him think he was  _afraid_. Men like him had to be faced strongly. "Some of us  _work_ , you see," he added in a slow drawl.

"Hogwarts," he said, his voice passionate. Severus disliked the longing in it. "Tell me, Snape. The girl –  _Parkinson_. You teach her."

Severus forced himself to show no reaction. "Obviously."

If Lestrange was offended by his curtness, he hid it well. "She smart?" he asked.

A short, loaded silence took over the cramped room.  _Smart_?  _Parkinson_? Well, not more than the rest of dunderheads he was forced to teach. Why on Merlin's pants did the man care? Could it be true? Was someone trying to recruit the snarky, obnoxious girl? Was she being used to lure Granger into the darkness, as Dumbledore thought?

Or –

"She smart or not?" Lestrange insisted, voice threatening, standing at once. The combination of mental instability and alcohol was not a good one, apparently.

"A  _decent_  potions student," he answered, unfazed. "Hasn't melted a cauldron yet – more than I can say for most." Lestrange stared at him straight in the eye, intense. Severus let his wand slowly slide down his sleeve holster, but still tried to avoid the confrontation. "A good aim for spells. Her duelling is adequate."

Perhaps there had been a time when a smile made Lestrange's strong jaw and sharp features look handsome, but that time had certainly passed. Azkaban was not kind on anyone – even Sirius Black had come out looking a gaunt, dreadful mess.

"Good," he said, still smiling. "Good," he repeated, and sat back down to take a deep gulp from his bottle of firewhisky.

Whatever Miss Parkinson had gotten herself into, Severus thought, was unlikely to end well.

* * *

Hermione and Pansy followed Harry at a distance, using the map to tell his position now that he was under the Cloak. Pansy suggested  _disillusionment_ , but going around together when they could not see each other tended to end badly. Besides, the map would still remain visible – rather pointless. Hermione trusted that semi-darkness and silence would keep the portraits asleep long enough for them to go by unnoticed.

As they climbed up the stairs to the third floor, they heard the sound of rushed steps ahead and Peeve's unmistakable, taunting voice. They froze mid-way, silent.

"What is this sound?" he said in his most annoying singsong. "Could an ickle little student be out of bed?" he wondered out loud. "Could someone be planning  _mischief_? Peevesy will help if you come outsy!"

Pansy raised an open palm to Hermione, wordlessly asking her to wait, and mouthed "I'll go." Hermione nodded, understanding her intentions. There was no need for both of them to go up to Gryffindor tower; Hermione simply needed to  _accio_  the flask containing the memory once Harry had fallen asleep. She could do that on her own.

"Liiiiittle stuuuuuuudent," Peeves kept on singing, hovering around, his voice oscillating between louder and softer as he moved to and fro.

Pansy went ahead. She quickly reached the third floor and turned right, moving away from Peeves. He must have either heard or seen something, because he suddenly went quiet. A few seconds later Hermione heard the resounding, metalling  _clonk_  of something – a piece of armour, perhaps – hitting the stone floor.

Hermione hid as Peeves flew by the top of the stairs – a flash of colour, loudly and happily yelling "Found you!"

She supposed Pansy had purposely made noise to draw him away from her, and wished her good luck; from the third floor to the dungeons, it might take her a while. She took her chance and went up. The map told her Harry had already reached the entrance to the Common Room. Strangely, though, he had stopped in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady, perhaps to talk to Nearly Headless Nick, who stood right by his side.

And then, the unthinkable happened.

Harry turned around and headed back down the way he had gone up. She stopped, confused. What the hell? Why would he continue to roam the Castle at such a late hour, when he already had what he wanted? Had he forgotten something? Had Nearly Headless Nick asked him to go somewhere else? What could a ghost have wanted from Harry in the middle of the night? Or what could he have reminded him of, told him about, that was –

Oh Gods!

She quickly unfolded the map fully. Could it be? She had a hunch that – Yes!

 _Dumbledore_  was in his office.

Hermione took on a mad dash. She heard a few portraits mumble incoherently after being roused from slumber as she ran past them, but she had higher priorities. If Harry reached Dumbledore's Office with the memory, it would  _stay_  there. And then, Hermione was certain, she would never manage to see it.

Harry was already reaching the fifth floor, which connected the West and North Wings of the Castle – from there, he could head toward the Headmaster's Office. Hermione headed for the North Wing too, but through the fourth floor. If she was fast enough, she could climb the spiral staircase behind Professor Binn's Office and intercept Harry midway.

Speed, sadly, was not her forte. And Harry had always been agile.

She reached the fifth floor but, instead of having time to hide behind the statue of Boris the Bewildered to wait for an ambush, she saw Harry reaching the far-end of the corridor. He was already ahead of her, closer to Dumbledore's Office, and there was no way she could outrun him.

There was only one option.

" _Stupefy_!"

Her aim had always been impeccable.

She had time to cushion the ground before Harry crumbled – she would rather not give him a concussion. She whispered a soft " _nox_ " as the painting of two elderly wizards playing chess showed a hint of movement, and the single torch that shed light on the corridor was extinguished. She approached Harry with the aid of a night-vision spell as one of the painted men wondered out loud at why they were surrounded by darkness.

Hermione searched his pockets for the Invisibility Cloak. He had it on when leaving Hagrid's hut, and who knew why he had opted to take it off at some point – to speak with the Fat Lady, perhaps? Or to Nearly-Headless Nick? It hardly mattered.

She found two vials instead. She pocketed them – one had to contain the memory, and her night vision did not allow her to recognise colours properly. The Cloak was in his other pocket, and she could use it to cover him fully.

She casted a careful  _obliviate_ , so that Harry would forget whatever it was that made him change his mind and head for Dumbledore's Office in the middle of the night. She levitated his unconscious, invisible form behind her as she walked back to Gryffindor tower. Harry would wake up in the morning thinking he had simply gone to bed.

Hermione played with the vials in her pocket. She had the memory now, but come morning she should return it. She could keep it for longer if she made Harry forget the whole evening, but that was a risky idea – erasing such a large chunk of memory could easily lead to the brain conjuring up inconsistencies. Harry's and Hagrid's, or Slughorn's, version of the evening might then not add up. Besides, Harry might have told Ron the truth.

No, she wanted a safer alternative.

She had been thinking, since the moment Harry and Slughorn had started speaking of memories, of an old conversation with Tonks. Hermione had been curious about the inner workings of the DMLE, and Tonks was always eager to answer questions, no matter how strange. They had talked at length about trials, amongst others topics, and about evidence. In the wizarding world, there were options Hermione had never considered: one could use a  _memory_  itself, as irrefutable proof.

Evidence, of course, had to be filed away and kept after a trial.

That was all Tonks had said, but it made Hermione think. Would the person who had provided the memory go  _without_  for the rest of their lives? Unlikely. Besides, in this scenario, memories would be absurdly  _fragile_. How easy, to break one vial and lose all evidence forever.

There had to be a way to keep a  _copy_  of memories.

A quick check on her watch told her she had about five hours to duplicate the memory Slughorn had given Harry.

She had no idea how.

* * *

Pansy vowed to herself she would find – or, if necessary, invent – a way to vanish a poltergeist from existence.

A painful way.

She was a  _witch_ , Circe's sake. Why was she on her knees, hiding from a  _non-being_  under a dusty desk? The image brought memories to her head, of a time she had felt vulnerable, scared. Memories she would rather not revisit; a feeling she would rather completely forget.

Inexcusable. Peeves was not even the last imprint on life of a perished wizard – like a ghost – he was a  _nothing_. A useless personification of chaos. A childish, aggravating, rude, moving embarrassment.

And a  _loud_  one to boot.

That pathetic, sorry excuse for a human being – Filch – had been drawn by the whole noisy mess. He had come limping, grunting and grumbling about students, about what he would like to do to them: hang them by the wrists, have a go at the whip. How  _sick_ , how utterly disgusting, that a man with such fantasies was allowed near children. Pansy would bet he had wet dreams about it; what he could do to the only beings in their world that were weaker than him.

That she was hiding from that revolting  _squib_  only added insult to injury.

Pansy stood after half an hour of idle waiting. With some luck, her pursuers would have drifted away, searching for new victims to torment. Or perhaps found each other, one could only hope.

She hurried down to the dungeons, careful to cast silencing and disillusionment spells, thinking herself invincible for them – in front of Filch, at least. She still moved carefully, because she doubted any capable professors would be so easily fooled – or, Merlin forbid, a roaming Auror.

She reached the Common Room without further complications, and breathed in relief as the door closed behind her back. She did not lift the spell, though, since someone was sitting on one of the couches – light on, his back to her. The boy had not moved, not even tensed, at the sound of the door.

She walked past him, unsurprised to confirm he was asleep, and yet surprised to see it was  _Zabini_. A paranoid, distrustful bastard such as him, sleeping there in the open? The amount of books he was surrounded by – on the couch, on his lap, on the nearby tables; a dozen library books, perhaps more – made her think he had succumbed to fatigue while searching for something. Something related to  _curses_ , judging by the titles.

She shrugged. She did not care much what Zabini did.

As she reached her bed and made to remove her cloak, she dropped the folded letter in her pocket. She sighed, tired. She just wanted to go to bed, but she had been delaying her answer long enough. If she kept quiet, her father may take drastic measures ahead of time… That would be most inconvenient.

She took a quill and drew her curtains closed, starting to write under the light of her  _lumos_. She would have liked to speak to Hermione before writing the two letters, but they had bigger worries – Slughorn's memory, Dumbledore's plans. There was no need to waste their precious little time together on such trifling matters.

* * *

Theo had sneaked into the Restriced Section – some of his father's teachings were useful, after all; no lock within the school could hold against him. He was sitting on a couple thick tomes, the bigger volumes he had found, one on the Goblin Wars and the other on household spells. What he was looking for, however, were  _curses_.

How the mudblood had found a curse so elusive, he did not understand. It was not like she had access to a private library, much like he did at home; therefore, she must have seen in the Hogwarts' Library.  _Where_ , though?

He and Blaise had perused almost all curse books in the DADA section. What was left, logically, was the part of the Library no sane professor would write him – Death Eater son – a pass for. So, while Blaise finished checking the last N.E.W.T. volumes, Theo had sneaked in to investigate the issue further. He had a hunch that whatever the girl had used was  _rare_ , or they would have come upon a mention of it by now.

And that was why he had forsaken hours of his much needed sleep in order to help his often-times ungrateful, currently scared-out-of-his-wits best friend.

Slumped in a corner, the  _Ars Goetia_  spread open on his lap, lit wand stuck between his teeth as he quickly turned the pages, was not a position he wanted anyone to see him in. Much less confusingly smart mudblood  _Granger_.

They locked eyes in one of those incredibly awkward,  _I-fucked-up_  looks that clearly conveyed you regretted the steps you had taken in the past few minutes. He had his wand in his mouth and his hands holding the old tome, and she was carrying a pile of books that towered over her head – none of them was in a position to draw their wand quickly. Or quickly enough to be absolutely certain they could cast before the other.

Theodore spoke up first, because he thought negotiating was not a Gryffindor skill. He needed to help Blaise, he could not waste time dealing with Granger.

"I never saw you if you never saw me?" he suggested, the words rough as he spoke with his wand in his mouth.

She could see a flash of doubt shine in her eyes – a hesitation. Finally, she nodded. He supposed having proved willing to help Pansy made her hold him in higher esteem. It did work the other way around, after all –  _he_  would not go against Granger as long as Pansy could rely on her.

It was the least he could do.

She went past him, heading for the furthest end of the Restricted Section. Theo was curious. What could the perfect Gryffindor model student want from such an obscure corner of Hogwarts? Perhaps Pansy had corrupted her  _pure_  mind?

Well, he could wonder about her motives at length later on. Right now, he had a bigger problem:  _cooties_  was not, after all, the name of a known Demon. Not that he had held much hope in that regard, but he was nothing if not  _thorough_.

The clock ticked the minutes away and dozens of books passed through his hands. Slowly, page by worn page, he despaired.

Would he not find the answer here? What if Blaise started to show symptoms? Would the Hogwarts staff believe them if they told the truth: a mudblood cursing Slytherins? He doubted it. He stood, grumbling about his bad luck – why was he friends with Blaise again?

Ah – yes. Draco was insufferable, and Vince and Greg were  _idiots_.

Theo sighed. He had to try and keep his  _only_  friend alive, did he not? Who would he play Exploding Snap with, if he lost Blaise? Who would he laugh at for being a posh, superficial idiot? Who could describe the  _substandard_ , worn velvet of the Common Room couches with as many derisive adjectives as Blaise? He smiled at the memory. He  _did_  have his good points.

He went further into the Restricted Section, near the tomes that screamed – or worse, bit you – if you were not careful enough. He saw Granger standing, a thick volume on her hands. He recognised it as one of his father's favourites;  _The Mind Arts_. Theo's brows shot up. At her feet, amongst the piled-up books, a few other equally bold reading choices drew his eyes.  _In Memoriam_ ,  _Ars Memoriae_  and even  _Museum of the Mind_.

He could take a guess at Granger's current interest, without fear to err. Why she needed to interfere with anyone's memories, he certainly did not know. Messing with the mind, however, was a nasty business. No wonder she researched in the dead of the night.

He gathered his courage. If he looked afraid, this would never work.

"Granger," he said. She immediately raised her gaze, startled. "I have a question for you."

She was surprised. Soon after, though, she furrowed her brows. Theo inwardly cursed – would her Gryffindor pride take offence at his roughness? Had he worried too much about not appearing weak? Should he have taken a  _kinder_  approach? Women favoured those, but he thought their house rivalry should take precedence. Though, his father had once told him ladies were ladies, first and foremost. Wait – was  _Granger_  a lady?

Ah – he was so not good with women. His hands were already sweating.

"One of your friends cursed Blaise," he carried on.

He rested an arm against the side of a wooden shelf and crossed his legs; he could fake suave self-confidence like the best. And, since he had started with a confident approach, he would have to keep the act up.

"He probably deserved it," she sniffed. "What about it?"

Theo certainly had to agree. Blaise was quite adept at making enemies, and taunting mudbloods was always a must in his plans. Damned idiot.

"Not saying he didn't," he admitted. He should placate her before asking for a favour, that much was obvious. "But we can't find a way to undo it."

"Oh?" she asked, lips curling into a mean smile. It somehow struck him as a very  _Pansy_  expression. "Who, though?" she asked, " _Any_  of my friends could have bested Zabini, after all," she added, smug.

Theo did not fall for the provocation. He had always been more pragmatic than proud, and he never lost sight of his objectives. She wanted to think her friends were Merlin reborn? He would gladly let her. He would join in and insult Blaise himself, if she so desired.

"That Hufflepuff," he answered, and then thought to specify, "the one in Arithmancy."

Granger's expression darkened, and he could not see a reason why.

"I figured," she said, snippy. "The Hufflepuff  _pureblood_ , I expect you know the name of."

Theo was glad for the darkness – it covered how quickly his face flushed. It was the truth, after all. Charity Jones came from a good enough family, even if her father had remarried to an American upstart. The mudblood, he had barely payed any attention to. Despite knowing how rational his reasons were, he could not find a way to convey them to Granger without sounding insulting – he could hardly tell  _her_  mudbloods were naturally below the notice of any pureblood.

It occurred to him she might disagree.

"I've met Jones on occasion," he defended instead, "her mother was a second cousin to mine."

Granger might have muttered something that sounded terribly similar to  _inbreeding_.

"If  _Garcia_ ," she emphasized the name heavily, "cursed Zabini, then I don't see what it has to do with me."

"You might know the curse," Theo said, willing himself to remember the name – if he ever needed Granger again, he would do well to avoid such a big blunder.

"I might," she admitted, smirking, pleased.

And there came the moment of truth, the whole foundation of his plan. Granger was, no matter Pansy's influence, a true Gryffindor.

"I helped Pansy out," he reminded her. At a great personal risk, too, though he reserved that bit in case he had to insist.

Granger's eyes widened. Such a debt could not be easily ignored, not by her. She bit on her lower lip – Theo took notice of the nervous tic – hesitation evident in her features. He was certain that, smart as she was, she was already considering the  _implications_  of not helping him. What if she and Pansy needed his help once more? Was alienating a possible source of information wise?

"Fine," she accepted, scowling. "But only this time – after this, we're even."

Theo nodded, pleased. Blaise owed him big, though, the bastard.

"Tell me about the curse. Effects?" she asked, interested in the problem despite all. Academically speaking, something they had not found a counter-curse for after a whole day of Library searching, had to be intriguing.

"None, for the moment," he answered darkly. The most terrible curses showed themselves with a delay, he knew it well. "But we heard the incantation."

And he told her.

Granger guffawed. She laughed so hard, so suddenly, she tripped on Ars Memoriae and fell on her behind. And even then, while sitting on the cold stone, despite having hit herself hard enough to bruise, she kept on roaring. It was as if he had told the best joke she had ever heard.

Ears going red, he realized he probably had.

He would  _kill_  Blaise. Murder him so dead he would never speak nonsense again. He would mince him into bits so small there would be nothing left of him to even play gobstones with. And then he would burn his remains in a Beltane fire and pray for his soul to never find eternal rest.

And when he finished with all that, Granger would probably be laughing still.

* * *

Hermione had to stifle yet another fit of sudden giggles. It did not matter that two hours had already gone by – the word kept coming back to her mind and she still found it  _hilarious_. She suspected she would get a fit every time she saw either Nott or Zabini for a long time.

 _Cooties_.

And Pansy still though Garcia was not a good candidate.

She dried her tears with the tips of her fingers, laughing in silence, and went over the spell once more. Nott, so red she had noticed even under the dim light of a  _lumos_ , had gone in search of  _Le Passé et son Empreinte_. She had offered her the text, along with the mention of a remarkable translation spell, on the condition that she  _never_  spoke of the embarrassing incident to anyone.

Since the book, which she had not yet thought to check – she abhorred French – had proved to be just what she needed, she would honour her word.

Her first reading choices had veered too closely toward occlumency and legilimency, and one of them –  _Ars Memoriae_  – turned out to be a rather detailed guide on memory alteration. Useful, she had to admit, but the idea of twisting someone else's memories to meet her needs, she found disgusting. She had done enough fiddling with  _obliviates_  already, in her opinion.

Not that Crabbe and Goyle's well-being was any of her concern – the  _bastards_  – but playing with Harry's brain had been nerve-wrecking. She felt guilty, despite how well she could justify to herself the need to get her hands on Slughorn's secrets.

And Dumbledore's. Specially Dumbledore's.

She took the vials from her pocket and willed her  _lumos_  brighter. The larger one contained the silvery strands all her books described, while the other was – wait, was it  _Felix Felicis_? More than the colour, she thought she recognized the oval shape of the tiny vial as the one Slughorn had gifted Harry.

She felt a pang of jealousy, along with hot anger – that potion should have been  _hers_. Harry had cheated.

Still, she realized, it had served a good purpose: Harry must have used it to get the memory. Tracey's and Pansy's comments came to her mind; Harry had failed for months to corner Slughron, and they suddenly met at night to bury a spider? Harry had found all the right words, made all the right choices – getting them drunk, speaking about his mother, confessing to be the Chosen One… And the way he had grinned, been so utterly  _happy_. Pansy had said he looked high.

High on  _luck_.

Hermione felt slightly vindicated at knowing Harry had needed the potion to achieve his objectives – Pansy was right; the boys were  _lost_  without her. She missed their friendship, despite the girls' company, but she liked to think they were the ones missing out.

At the very least, their essay marks were proving her right.

She had to admit she felt the temptation – a greedy, sweet voice in a dark corner of her mind, yearning for luck as much as it had for power – to keep the vial. However, she was forced to acknowledge that, with Voldemort so openly aggressive, Harry was the one in need of luck.

She pocketed the Felix Felicis and focused on the task at hand. The spell to use was intricate – as she had expected, a simple  _gemino_  charm could only duplicate objects, and had not worked for her – and she was already tired. Her hands shook as she attempted it for the first time, but excitement kept her going. What rested now within her hands, what she was recreating glittery string by glittery string, was a secret so deeply buried only Slughorn knew its truth. A secret so powerful he felt  _ashamed_  of – enough to hide it from Dumbledore.

The silvery threads split into two just like a strand of hair left untrimmed for too long. Hermione pulled the splits apart with care, her mind already thinking ahead. She wondered what she would learn from them, if the memory was as crucial to the Chosen One as Harry had implied. She needed to figure out Dumbledore's plans – else, how could she help bring Voldemort down? She needed to use that one single memory to deduce what Dumbledore had been showing, teaching, Harry during the last months. She needed information, or she would be rendered useless.

And first of all, she needed a pensieve.

* * *

Pelham Parkinson was well aware of his daughter's true character; one she had never properly learnt to hide. He blamed the girl's lack of customary respect for her father on both his short stature – he was aware he made a sadly non-imposing figure – and on his wife's teachings.

Had Pelham known how much stubbornness hid behind Aster Shafiq's pleasant smile, he would have never agreed to their engagement. But, alas, the mother hid her nature better than the daughter. He still told himself that meeting the grandmother, that old harpy Verbena, should have given him enough clue to turn the offer down.

Evidently, his daughter had inherited the Orpington blood, and Verbena's indomitably rude spirit shone in her eyes. He had tried to mould the girl into a demure, respectable young lady – much like those lovely Greengrass girls, albeit without success. After all, raising a daughter was a woman's job, and his influence was bound to be limited.

He was certain that, had she learnt to emulate the rest of young ladies, her marriage options would have been highly improved. He had still done the best for the girl, of course, as befitted his duty; Rabastan Lestrange was sacred-twenty-eight, and possessed a rather substantial fortune. As he was older, as well as quite…  _life-hardened_ , he was unlikely to take offence at his daughter's asper character, as younger wizards might.

Aster had at least taught the girl to behave in public, even if her tantrums at home were a sight to behold. He had been glad to pack the girl away to Hogwarts and have her return grown up, and hopefully much easier to reason with.

It had been, apparently, a fruitless endeavour.

Pelham folded his daughter's letter and went in search for his wife. Aster would have to take responsibility for the girl's words and actions, because they were certainly not the fault of  _his_  child-rearing.

As if the rumours of her running around with a  _mudblood_  had not been bad enough – he was at risk of becoming a true laughingstock – now the little girl had the temerity of refusing the summons of her paterfamilias. ' _I will never marry Lestrange_ ,' she had answered, ' _and I won't come back home while there's a risk that you'll force me to_.' Such cheek she had, throwing another little tantrum when something as important as a house union was at stake. Did she not understand that the Lestranges would take the news badly?

He climbed up the stairs to Aster's rooms, already fuming, thinking of the heavily-worded letter he would send back to the impertinent girl. He knocked on her door, and knocked again when there was no answer, and gave up after the fifth time.

"Ritty," he called, and her wife's house-elf, much like his own daughter, did not answer his summons.

That, he found suspicious. His wife took her elves when she visited her mother in France, but she always announced her departure well in advance. Even in case of an emergency, she would have found a way to get word back to him.

He opened the door – something he had never done before without his wife's permission – and the sight before him took his breath away.

The rooms were empty.

The antique, four-poster bed was left behind, along with the wardrobe. The rest of furniture – the canopy chairs, the sofas and ottomans, the coffee tables, the dressers, the rugs and anything else his wife had bought, was missing. Her clothes, shoes and jewellery had also been removed and there was nothing in the room that could led anyone to believe it had been recently occupied.

A single piece of parchment was left on the bed. He took it, fingers trembling, and recognised the calligraphy as his daughter's – it was a letter speaking solely about flowers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid that I can't promise the updates will be frequent in the next months, as the deadline for my PhD thesis defence is approaching. My work schedule is crazy right now.
> 
> Thank you all for the lovely comments! I'll do my best.


	21. Piece

**Coven. Ch. 21: Piece**

Harry's head was spinning. Admittedly, the purplish fumes coming out from Ron's cauldron might have something to do with it, but he attributed most of the vertigo to the idea of  _Horcruxes_.

After his early-morning talk with Dumbledore, the until now abstract idea of  _fighting_  Voldemort felt suddenly real. Gone were the wild – and now embarrassing – daydreams of an incredibly powerful magic known only to himself; gone the fantasizing about an easy and unexpected win. In their place, Harry now saw a plan, a to-do list, a very specific set of objectives.

The locket, the cup, the snake, something of Gryffindor of Ravenclaw's…

"Mate," Ron interrupted. "What's the Prince say? Should it look lumpy?"

Harry did not need to check his book to know Ron's potion was a guaranteed  _Troll_. Still, he remembered Hermione once telling him baneberry essence got rid of lumps, and he suggested it. Ron added the ingredient from a safe distance, and they both waited with apprehension – explosions were never amiss in a sixth year potions class.

"Nice one," Ron said when it seemed likely it had worked. His potion still looked like blueberry jam, albeit an unusually smooth batch. "D'ya reckon she'd know something? About horcruxes, I mean," he added almost as an afterthought, his eyes fastened on Hermione's back.

Harry supposed the mention of baneberries had brought her to his mind, too.

"Maybe," he said, his mood darkening. "Parkinson would. Might have told her."

Ron got a nasty frown to match his own, and kept on stirring his potion, which was darkening in colour, getting further away from the desired sky blue.

"You sure Parkinson would know how to split her soul in half?" Ron looked sceptical. "She's a mean sort all right, but even You-Know-Who had to ask Slughorn for specifics…"

Harry snorted. "Parkinson's got a whole lot of other options besides the Hogwarts' Library, doesn't she? I'll bet she knows all kinds of dark stuff – even more now that she's joined  _them_."

Ron's scowl got deeper, and Harry knew him well enough to understand the gesture as disagreement. "What?" he prodded him.

"It's just," Ron shrugged, looking confused, "don't you think it's strange? How the Slytherins are shunning Parkinson? If she's working for You-Know-Who, then –"

"Maybe they don't know," he said, having thought about it before – he had heard the lot of them call her  _blood traitor_. Crabbe and Goyle seethed when she walked by, and they were not smart enough to act.

"I don't know mate," he said, hesitating, as if not quite daring to bring the topic up. "I just find the whole idea mind-boggling. I mean, Hermione, with You-Know-Who?"

Well, yes, it sounded idiotic when you summarized it that way. But Dumbledore had said –

"And I thought that, I dunno –"

Ron had been one of the angriest, back at the Burrow, when Dumbledore had shared the news. That was when he had been feuding with Hermione, though; it seemed now that they had not spoken in about half a year – goodness, how time passed – his temper had cooled enough to reconsider the situation.

"Hermione would never join Voldemort," Harry agreed, and ignored Ron's wince. "It's Parkinson who has. I reckon Hermione doesn't know."

Again, Ron looked doubtful.

"But – I mean, if she befriended Hermione to spy on you, why would she keep going now?" he asked. "Can't get much information when we don't speak to her, can she? And meanwhile, she only gets herself enemies. Two days ago, I saw a bloody  _third-year_  Slytherin try to hex her in the corridors," he said.

Harry could see what he meant, but to him it still made sense – an elaborate plan to keep Hermione away from them, and to gather whatever information she could on his past. Ron, though, kept going.

"And they've joined forces with Davies – she's a halfblood, you know?"

Harry had not known, and was momentarily shaken out of his convictions; it had never occurred to him that Slytherins could be anything but purebloods. Ron, however, kept going.

"And then there's Luna, and Garcia who's another muggleborn, and that other short Hufflepuff who seems nice," he said. "Why?" he asked him again, and Harry had no answers. "Wasn't she  _isolating_  Hermione? Why allow her friends that Parkinson herself supposedly hates?"

Harry could not formulate an explanation that sounded solid enough to share. Maybe Parkinson needed allies within Slytherin? If third-years had taken to cursing her… And as for the other girls, could it just be a way to keep Hermione happy? Distracted? To convince her she was not a Death Eater like Malfoy?

"And now there's all those other Slytherin half-bloods, you know? Like fifteen of them, or so… Following Parkinson around like she leads them – Like she's the best thing since racing brooms."

Ron was getting excited, waving his hands around. Harry realized he must have been thinking about it for a while.

"And it just occurred to me, that maybe they aren't with  _him_. Maybe – Maybe they're just, like,  _out_. Of the whole thing," he finished.

" _Out_?" Harry repeated, now thoroughly confused.

"Look, if this were a chess board," Ron started again, speaking quickly, "you'd see, all the pieces – they're moving in all the wrong directions! Why sacrifice your pawn structure when its changes are permanent?"

"Real life's not chess, Ron," Harry hissed, frustrated with the whole conversation.

"What I mean is," he kept on, undeterred by his frostiness, "when Parkinson's credibility is compromised, once she's branded as blood traitor, there's no going back. That's a stain that'll follow her for life, a permanent mistrust. And what for? To keep Hermione away from you?" Ron shook his head. "They could just  _kill_  Hermione and –"

Harry gasped. "Ron!"

"What?" he defended, unwilling to back out. "What happened to Katie, and to me, could have targeted Hermione with a much easier success than with Dumbledore."

Harry's head was spinning faster than at the beginning of the lesson, and he could only think that he did not need more worries, more doubts. The weight of destroying Voldemort piece by piece was heavy enough to add to it the possibility of having been wrong about Hermione.

"She's doing dark magic," he reminded Ron, latching onto that certainty with desperation. "She told me herself."

Ron nodded, looking displeased. "And that's a problem," he agreed. "And Parkinson's fault. But Hermione said it had nothing to do with You-Know-Who. Actually, the only one who said that was –"

"You think  _Dumbledore's_  wrong?" Harry asked, bitter, cutting. A harsh laugh escaped from his throat, a sarcastic sound full of disbelief.

Ron huffed, and would have certainly answered if it were not for the shadow casted by Slughorn's rather large form over their workspace. Harry quickly dropped the muffiato, in time to hear him finish his sentence.

"– rather off. Perhaps, Mr Weasley, you'd like to start over?" he asked him, and then jovially added, "Mr Potter will lend you a hand, I'm sure."

They both nodded, Ron blushing as the whole class turned to check on them, Parkinson's smirk infuriating.

* * *

Pansy cheerfully turned back to her potion – a shade off, almost turquoise, but she could easily fix it with a couple drops of rose oil. Weasley being chastised was always inspiring, and since Hermione had told her Potter was  _cheating_  his way to Outstandings she could stomach his success.

"We don't own one," she said to Hermione, retaking their conversation, "Penseives are rare. And my father isn't much of a  _scholar_ ," she added, lips pursed.

_He isn't much of anything_ , she inwardly though, but Hermione had caught her meaning without the need to spell it.

"Then there's only Dumbledore's, that we know of," Hermione said, absentmindedly stirring.

"If you suggest we sneak into his office, I'll drag your Gryffindor arse to the bottom of the Black Lake," Pansy threatened. She knew her too well; she could guess where her thoughts went with just a word.

Hermione's cheeks pinked, and she haughtily added, "Well, have  _you_  got another suggestion?"

"Well, yes, indeed," Pansy primly answered, always happy to annoy. "I suggest we wait until summer, a mere two months away, and search for one  _outside_  of Hogwarts."

Hermione was surprised at the suggestion, which was expected – Gryffindors never considered  _waiting_  an option. A clear mistake.

"Outside of Hogwarts?" Hermione repeated, and then wrinkled her nose. "You mean that place full of Death Eaters that want to drag you back to your parents' house? Sounds like a  _brilliant_  idea." Pansy could taste the sarcasm in the air. "Let us freely gallivant through Diagon Alley and try to purchase an incredibly rare item. Not at all noticeable. What could possibly go wrong?"

Hermione and Pansy intended to spend the summer behind the safety and privacy of the Granger's wards, and perhaps use the chance to improve them as far as they could. Indeed, making their presence known anywhere else could lead to trouble – it all depended on how long her father took to go to the Lestranges and admit he could not control his own daughter.

Knowing how absurdly proud he was – proud of what, she did not know – it could take a while.

"Theo's father has one," she said, ignoring Hermione. "Perhaps he could be convinced," she suggested.

It was not fair to ask Theo to risk angering his father, she knew that, but if a quick arrangement could be made, in a safe enough way…

"Or we secretly  _sneak_  into his house," Hermione said, and laughed when Pansy glared daggers at her.

"If only we could still access the Room," Pansy mourned. "It could offer one, I'm sure."

Hermione did not seem so certain, but Pansy missed their old meeting point enough to entertain the idea. She wondered if it was risky, trying to enter again. The elves might be patrolling it still, but Potter might not link their attempt at using it with Draco, after such a long time.

"Or it could offer a reading spot at least," Hermione said, already clearing her workspace. Her potion was, as always, annoyingly perfect.

"Where can we even initiate Lovegood and the others?" Pansy was frustrated. Their plans we on stand-by until they figured a way to meet safely. "Your werewolf's den's now guarded by Aurors, the Room's guarded by Potter's little  _buggers_  – If only you and your lover boys had found one other secret spot…" she poked Hermione's ribs with a sharp nail, trying to drive the point home.

Actually, she was quite glad they had not – she already felt her school life had been uneventful enough as it was.

Hermione had finished pouring her potion within the small vial they had to hand over to Slughorn, unperturbed by her playful, poking antics, but now appeared to have  _frozen_  in place. Her eyes remained wide and her mouth unflatteringly open as she lowered the ladle back to the cauldron.

"Pansy," she said, and that vacant tone in her voice was alarming, "of course!"

Hermione dropped the ladle and stood, grabbing her bag and dropping the vial in front of Slughorn's pleased, content form. She ran out of the room, passing by a whining Weasley – bound to stay overtime to redo his work – and a clearly angry Potter, and Pansy was left behind, speechless. " _Of course what?_ " she wanted to yell at her. She hated being left out of the loop like that.

"Library calls?" Tracey asked her from one seat behind.

Pansy shrugged, but inwardly admitted it was a likely possibility.

* * *

Charity walked out of the Divination classroom feeling lightheaded. Trelawney had overdone it with the incense as usual, and she was starting to think she would never again be able to tolerate the smell of lavender. At least she had opted to change from the previous year's orange blossom – that one had made her sneeze.

She walked out into one of the smaller cloisters on the ground floor, its entrance almost hidden behind the Transfigurations classroom, its use made unpopular by the overabundance of overgrown grass. It was a good place to breath in some fresh air, though, and she had never minded weeds.

Surprisingly, it was already occupied.

Despite how very indistinctive her features were, she had never seen a shade of grey as dull as that of her hair; the woman was easy to remember. She sat on the ground, back resting on a now permanently empty fountain, and was busying herself picking at the quackgrass growing in front of her.

"Auror Tonks?" she asked, and the woman looked up at her, startled.

It seemed to take her a few seconds to place Charity, but she did respond. "Hermione's friend."

Charity was genuinely surprised at being remembered. Not even some of her professors quite placed her, and Tonks could despite their very limited contact – she had seen her once as part of a crowd of four girls around Hermione, and they had not exchanged a single word.

"Charity Jones," she introduced herself. "Are you alright?"

She did not look like she was.

"Sure," Tonks said, attempting at a jovial tone.

She looked like she had not seen alright in a very long time. Charity nodded anyway, and sat down next to her. She pulled at a twig growing near her feet, and thought about how to properly get a conversation started.

"Is it exciting?" she asked her, "Being an Auror?"

Tonks looked like she wanted to answer. She opened her mouth, she took in air, and in the end she could only give her as much as a shrug. Now, Charity did not personally know any Aurors, but she could imagine the risks the job implied in the dangerous times they were living. Death Eaters, the threat of You-Know-Who, people disappearing without a trace one after the other, muggles being murder in unexplainable accidents… all neatly summarized in one gesture: a  _shrug_.

She did not know the job of an Auror, but she felt that she knew Tonks.

"Did you always want to be an Auror?" she asked her, because conversation did help, even when you felt like nothing would.

Charity knew the dispassionate, long face of being so far away, so detached from everything to even feel. The dull eyes of seeing life pass you by without it noticing you are there. The wanting to be  _seen_  while wanting nothing else but to be left alone.

Tonks shrugged again, but still answered. "Childhood dream. Everyone has one, right?" she pulled on the quackgrass and freed a strand. "Most girls wanted to be unicorn carers, or journalists, or to marry Spencer Woodbridge." Charity ignored who that was, but she assumed he must have been cute. "Some wanted to be Quidditch players," Tonks admitted, "but it was always Auror for me."

Charity nodded, and yet said, "No."

Charity knew the tiredness that delved so deep within you it made a dent in your bones. Too tired to wake up, too tired to eat, too tired to talk and walk and write and listen, too tired to even go to sleep.

Tonks raised her head, confused.

"I don't have a dream," she admitted. "Never had one." Unless you counted being prettier, but she was both ashamed of its simplicity, and aware it did not count as  _after-Hogwarts plans_.

"Not even when you were little?" Tonks insisted.

"Would you count 'being daddy's princess'?" Charity asked, twisting her lips into a disgusted expression. If Parkinson ever heard of this, she would kill herself.

Charity knew the self-deprecation that came with knowing you should be  _moving_ , and yet being unable to start.

Tonks laughed. It was short, and just a mix between a snort and a huff, but Charity counted it nonetheless.

"If it was always Auror for you," Charity went on, "how come it's not exciting?"

Charity knew the feel of that deep, dark, hole that pulled you in despite not wanting you – she still, sometimes, felt its edge with the side of her foot as she walked past.

Tonks' brows furrowed and her gaze dropped to her feet once more. She did not seem to have an answer for her.

"Is it just boring? Is it different than expected? Is it harder?" Charity could feel Tonks' eyes on her now, but she did not turn to share a look.

"No. No, It's – There's nothing wrong with being an Auror," Tonks said, her voice taking on an edge of frustration. "It's everything I ever wanted, it's what I expected, and yet – yet…"

"Yet, it's somehow crushing you?" Charity suggested.

Charity knew the weight, the heaviness, the squeezing sensation of being unhappy with your life while it is  _better_  than many others'. The not complaining for fear everyone knows you have nothing to complain about.

"It shouldn't," Tonks answered. "It really shouldn't."

"Lately, everything that  _shouldn't_  just kind of  _is_."

And, as an Auror, Tonks would know better than anyone else.

* * *

Luna followed Hermione and Pansy through the second-floor corridors. Her friends were bickering, as usual, but she was busy contemplating how the old rituals native to Wadi el-Hol had a scripture grammatically similar to modern mermish. She suspected the resemblance must be rooted in the interaction between language and magic; but mermish magic was one of the best-kept secrets of the merpeople – she lacked the data to prove her hypothesis.

"You must be joking!" Pansy's loud voice startled Luna out of her inner musings. "Your  _great_  idea is to meet in a flooded bathroom?" And, despite the unlikeliness that anyone in a two-corridor radius had not heard her, she repeated, "A  _bathroom_?"

Luna followed the girls in, casting a waterproof charm on her shoes and stepping into as many puddles as she could, enjoying the sound of her splashing. Too bad the loud moans coming from one of the closed cubicles didn't allow her to enjoy the auditory delight to its fullest.

"Morgana's staff! Does this ghost ever shut up?" Pansy complained. "Look, Granger… I get that we wouldn't be bothered in here – why would anyone in possession of their full sanity even get close to this shithole?" she asked to no one in particular. "And why would  _we_?"

"Pansy, cut it out," Hermione hissed. "I need to focus – I managed to do it yesterday."

Luna's curiosity was roused. She went past Pansy, who was waving her wand around – producing the strongest  _scourgifies_  she had ever seen anyone cast, because Pansy never did anything by halves – before daring to step ahead, and joined Hermione near the sink.

"You casted a  _muffiato_ ," Luna pointed out. She liked the spell; it was the last one Harry had ever taught her.

"I don't want Myrtle to notice we're here."

Hermione stared at the sink tap and, after taking in air deeply, hissed at it. A literal hiss; a sound much like one a snake might have uttered. Luna's brows shot up. Hissing, she had never considered – she should try it with her sprouts, they might like it better than whistling, or singing.

"Have you lost your bloody mind?" Pansy shrieked, reaching them over the now spotless floor.

Pansy looked horrified at the prospect of Hermione's actions springing from craziness, but Luna knew better. Hermione was sane, much like herself; she was just  _playing_  with magic, tugging at its strings, reaching for the boundaries of standard knowledge and bending them with a soft poke. She felt warm inside, excitement bubbling up – she was looking forward to her success.

"Ron spent a whole year hissing around Gryffindor tower," Hermione told them, "he liked to retell the story time and time again… It never got old, for him. I remember how it sounded – I can do it."

Pansy frowned and glanced at her, whispering, "what's she talking about?"

Luna smiled reassuringly and patted Pansy's arm. She was strong, willing to bend rules, explore magic in all its branches and step over anyone who tried to get on her way, but sometimes she lacked a bit of faith – they would have to teach her that.

Hermione hissed once more, in a slightly different intonation – this one longer, the sibilant ending softer – and the ground vibrated strongly enough for them to feel the shaking in their legs. The sink moved, turning on itself, spreading open like a blooming flower and leaving a large pipe exposed, wide enough for a grown man to slide into.

"Now, hurry up," Hermione prompted, and jumped in.

Luna's heart was beating faster now, the wonder of witnessing a flourishing sink leaving a firm imprint in her mind. She took a step closer and tugged on Pansy's sleeve, ignoring her mutterings of "dirty, slimy pipes," and "people  _pee_  in these toilets here," and "I can't even see the end of this hole, but I can  _smell_  it."

Luna jumped, pushing Pansy down with her. Pansy clutched at her waist and let out the loudest, shrillest scream of panic – could Pansy have some  _banshee_  blood? – as they slid down the pipe, going faster and lower than any of them had anticipated. Luna laughed with glee, despite Pansy's deathly grip on her taking almost all the air out of her lungs. She was reminded of the fun trips to her father's Gringott's vault – the pipe twirled and turned and she saw narrower pipes branching out in all directions; mysterious, dark and inviting.

The pipe levelled out and they shot out, landing wetly on the damp floor, limbs all tangled together. Pansy whimpered as she struggled to stand up and her hands touched only slime while her feet made a certainly uninviting squelching sound as she stepped on something soft.

"I'm wet," she said, voice slow and shaking with disbelief, "in places a lady is  _not_  supposed to be wet."

Luna stood too, taking a look around. They were in a stone tunnel, lighted thanks to the floating, burning orbs Hermione must have just casted, its walls dirty with mould and grime, the air humid and stuffy. Looking ahead, she saw the ground littered with mounts of small bones – rat skulls, tiny ribcages, and even what looked like the remains of an owl.

"It does get better," Hermione promised, and walked on.

"By better, are you referring to this  _gigantic_  snake skin?" Pansy asked, walking carefully to avoid stepping on anything squishy with her good shoes.

"Wonderful," Luna agreed with Pansy, taking a closer look. The scales, of a vivid, poisonous green gleamed under the light of the fire. The creature must have been at least twenty feet long.

"You'll be singing my praises in a minute," Hermione told Pansy smugly.

They walked on, going past a large pile of rubble that narrowed the tunnel considerably, taking turn after turn in a long trek through Hogwarts' very vowels. Finally, they reached the end – a solid wall, whiter and cleaner than the rest of the cavernous corridor, two entwined serpents carved on it, their eyes glittering green.

Pansy gasped, no longer squeamish, finally revelling in the excitement of the moment. "Don't tell me this is…"

Hermione hissed again, and this time it took her only three tries to get it right. The snakes parted, the wall cracked open – resounding, loud and imposing – and the halves slid smoothly out of sight.

Beyond the wall stood a very long chamber, dimly lit in a greenish gleam – perhaps a bit how any non-Slytherin imagined their Common Room would be coloured, as if natural light was shining through the Great Lake. Flanking the central nave were towering stone pillars carved with hundreds of snakes, which reached the ceiling and smoothly merged into its veins.

What immediately drew their attention, however, were the remains of a very obviously incredibly large  _basilisk_.

"Fuck, that  _reeks_ ," Pansy said, but she could not lift her eyes from the body of the magnificent creature either.

Luna walked closer. If anyone had promised her she would ever see something grander than a dead acromantula, Luna would at least have assumed it would take her a few years. But, a basilisk? One that had lived for more than a millennium?

Oh, if only her father was there to share the moment with her.

Scattered around the body were small corpses – insects, adults who had had their fill, reproduced and died – stuck on the dark, discoloured puddle where the bodily fluids had seeped out, decomposed and dried.

She stepped closer, avoiding to step on any crunchy insects, and felt an almost irresistible urge to poke the bones. The fangs, though, she was pretty sure she should avoid.

Hermione waved her wand behind her, getting rid of the smell and then the insects. Thankfully, she did not attempt to touch the treasure. Luna would have taken issue with that.

"The Chamber of Secrets," Hermione declared proudly.

"Between the dead, giant snake and the huge statue of Salazar Slytherin back at the end, I'd kind of guessed," Pansy drawled, but even her practiced aristocratic, bored voice could not hide her awe.

"Is there more than one?" Luna asked, and then added when she correctly interpreted their expressions as confused, " _secrets_."

Hermione frowned. "That's a good question."

"I can't believe you kept this place to yourself until now," Pansy went on, ignoring their conversation. "How  _dare_  you?"

Hermione huffed. "I'd never even been here before yesterday – it slipped my mind. What? Drop the look – it's not like we came here every other day to have a chat. This place is  _creepy_."

"I like it," Luna said. And she really did.

"Well, it could use some work," Pansy admitted. "It's way too empty," and the way the walls echoed empty, empty, empty, seemed to prove her point. "But it'll do."

"When are we bringing everyone else down?" Luna interrupted, excited.

Hermione and Pansy exchanged a careful glance.

Luna had the terrible feeling that meant they were back to pretending they were not a well-established group of six yet again.

* * *

Ginevra Weasley had lived through too many life-threatening situations in her short life to let the small, little, every-day problems of school-life frazzle her. She had once hosted a monster within her head – an ugly, dark, clammy presence sucking the magic out of her. She had learnt loneliness and despair and utter hopelessness at the tender age of eleven, and while she knew it would always be the darkest spot in her memories, it had also taught her pragmatism.

Ginny was logical, practical and efficient. And when she saw a problem that could be fixed with a swift, quick action, she  _acted_.

She eyed Harry, brooding alone in a corner of the Common Room. Her mouth twisted with displeasure – a gesture, she had been told, reminded people of her mother. The situation, clearly, required  _action_.

Hurt could turn people into fools. Her brother's jealousy had made him hurt Hermione. Hermione's pain had made her join Pansy Parkinson, which had angered Harry. And now Harry's anger was making him turn away from Ron.

Fools, the whole lot of them.

Five years of the strongest of friendships, shattered so easily. If only they knew how it felt, to be  _alone_ , they would have fought for their ties instead of digging at their cracks.

But now Ginny could not take it anymore. Their relationship with Hermione might be unsalvageable, if it proved true that she had taken a liking for the Dark Arts – because, while Ginny was pragmatic, the feeling of dark magic on her skin still woke her up at nights. That, she could not forgive – but Harry and Ron just could  _not_  fall apart.

"Harry," she called him.

He was surprised, to be called out by her. He could see his cheeks blush slightly, and he stuttered as he stood to say "hi." She remembered Hermione's advice, such a long time ago, to go after other boys and let Harry go after her. With a shiver, she also remembered the written words of her  _Tom_ , promising he would give her the world at her feet, and Harry along with it. She shook her head, and wished the thoughts away.

"What's wrong?" she asked, not expecting a straight answer.

"Wrong?" He was surprised again, but joined her when she sat by his side. "Nothing. Just – Ron." He shrugged.

"And Hermione," Ginny rolled her eyes. "And  _everyone_ , apparently."

Harry frowned. "What do you mean by that?"

"You're angry at the world," she told him. She knew the feeling; she had worn that anger like her own skin. Harry looked like he might disagree, so she added, "You've been  _glaring_  at Seamus' chess set all afternoon."

Harry hesitated, and then gave up on his attempt to deny it.

"He's been missing a pawn," he told her, grumpy. "Apparently, it's a  _tragic_  incident."

Ginny laughed. Seamus and Ron had been looking for it for a while; his friends having such trivial worries must have got under Harry's skin. However, that he was still in the mood for sarcasm was a good thing. They quieted, the mood somewhat lightened, the air easier to breath.

They sat side by side in companionable silence, enjoying the privileged view of the usual, boisterous ruckus of their Common Room.

"Ron's having doubts," he told her, out of the blue. "About Hermione."

Ginny frowned. She was under the impression that Hermione's new alliances were clear enough, and Dumbledore had not left them much room for doubt. Ron and Harry knew her better, though – she would trust their judgement first.

"And you?" she asked him, because he had sounded disapproving.

Harry shrugged. "I don't know anymore."

Ginny noticed the dark circles under his eyes, the pallor of his skin. It was the look he had worn since the day she first met him, even though she had been way too dazzled by her hero to notice back then. She wondered if Harry had ever known a stress-free life.

"You don't need to know," she told him. "You don't need to shoulder every single decision. You don't need to fix every problem on your own."

She wondered if anyone had ever told him that. Judging by the look on his face, by the sound of his scoffing, she doubted it.

"Yes, I do," he corrected her, but sounded bitter. The kind of bitterness one carried for way too long; corrupted, acid, darkened by the time spent in the shadows of one's own mind.

"Why?" she scoffed. She knew Harry had issues. He had been raised to fend for himself, to get himself out of trouble – no adult had even given him reason to do otherwise. But Ginny thought he should ease the pressure on himself, let the Order do their job,  _trust_  them a little bit.

Harry went quiet once more.

It was not the kind of quiet that admitted defeat, though. Nor of those too tired to argue an old point. It was the kind of silence that came with  _secrets_.

"Let me tell you, it's  _never_  a good idea to keep secrets to yourself." She knew secrets too well; they sunk their teeth on your soul and ripped it apart from the inside out. If the burden of them did not crush you before that.

Harry looked into her eyes – his green, shining, the only part of him to  _never_  dim. He hesitated. Ginny smiled. Harry swallowed, and gave in.

"You more than anyone," he said, grim, "deserve to know."

And Ginny learned that the presence in her mind, the darkness that had sucked her dry, had been a literal piece of  _soul_  from Lord Voldemort himself.

* * *

Hermione flipped the pages of  _Guide to Advanced Transfiguration_ , trying to get a last-minute review before Professor McGonagall's weekly test. Breakfast was proving to be a quite affair, with Garcia's attention focused in the latest copy of  _Monthly Notices of the British Academy of Arithmancy_  and Luna reading the Quibbler as per usual. Tracey and Pansy were discussing  _Slytherin business_  – which Hermione knew meant they were having trouble with the blood purists – in low, quick whispers, and Charity was writing what looked like a long letter.

Their silence was, as usual, interrupted by the arrival of the mail. Garcia, who Hermione had deduced must  _hate_  owls, cursed out loud as she got her magazine out of the way.  _The Prophet_  was a necessary read every morning – all students wanted to know if anyone they loved had been attacked. The Great Hall came to life with the hoots and screeches of owls, the rustling of pages and the muttering of rousing students.

"Quidditch results on the front page? Really?" Tracey scoffed.

"The Harpies  _always_  make the front page," Charity said. "Isn't it good that it's not  _murder_ , for once?" she sounded snippy, but she did always get a bit defensive about Quidditch.

Tracey teased her about Gwenog Jones' unusually poor performance in the game, Garcia made her  _not-fucking-Quidditch-again_  face, and Luna speculated on the possibility of the player having caught invictus influenza.

Hermione, however, was not paying attention to the news.

Pansy had received an envelope; white parchment, no return address on it, not even a written addressee. The owl who had carried it – a huge, grey, majestic eagle owl none of them had ever seen before – had dropped it unceremoniously, without waiting for an answer. Hermione could sense Pansy's dread, and found she shared it.

She reached over across the table and cast a couple diagnostic spells. Pansy's face was scrunched up in suspicion, but the spells were not triggered – it looked clean. Besides, anything too dark should not be able to bypass the Hogwarts' wards.

Pansy cast a cutting spell to open it and levitated the contents out. Inside was one single pressed flower. Blue and white, dried and then hardened through a spell – it was a dried  _pansy_.

"Your mother?" Hermione asked her in a whisper, curious. She knew they usually spoke through flowers, but had never seen it taken quite so  _literally_.

Pansy frowned. "I don't think so," she said.

Then who? It was obvious Pansy did not know either.

"What's that?" Tracey asked, leaning over to take a closer look. "Someone sending you flowers, Pans?" Her smile turned smug, suggestive. She wiggled her eyebrows for additional emphasis.

That was bound to draw everyone's attention.

"An unimaginative admirer," Garcia laughed. "I mean – a  _pansy_?"

"I like pansies," Luna contributed, eyeing the flower curiously.

"Weasley and Bell also received anonymous gifts this year," Charity reminded them. "It might be poisoned." She sounded more hopeful than worried, though.

"Don't you worry your huffles," Pansy drawled, "I'm witch enough to check."

And despite the retort, Hermione knew Pansy was sharing Charity's thoughts. A  _dried pansy_.

How  _ominous_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I confess to not knowing anything about chess. I googled to try and get Ron to say something sensible. If any expert is reading this, feel free to correct me (or say I simply make no sense). I took the description of how a four-year-old corpse should look like from Jeffrey A. Larson (Quora)
> 
> Thank you all for your words of support regarding my thesis. I found some time (more like, I procrastinated) to write another chapter. Sorry I didn't get to answer all reviews, it's been a busy month. I appreciate every single one of your comments, they make my day!


	22. Talk

_Last Edit: 14.04.2019 – Thanks to Ayicasheart for pointing out a mistake_

**Coven. Ch. 22: Talk**

Vicky glanced to the left, eyeing Hermione covertly. She was bent over a potions book that looked older than Hogwarts itself, lips pursed and brow narrowed; too focused to pay any attention to her surroundings. Good. Vicky drew a sharp line underneath her unfinished Astronomy essay. The Venus-Jupiter conjunction could wait; the geometrical patterns of the planets on the night sky had no real meaning – unless you believed in divination, which was bollocks.

She raised her eyes and followed Tracey and Charity, both already finished with their work, taking advantage of the sunny day to play near the Lake, throwing in bits of treacle tart for the Great Squid to eat. Hermione and Charity were alike in the sense that they could sniff procrastination a mile away, and were way too stiff to allow a girl to follow her true passions. Who even cared about planetary conjunctions, anyway? Two big, round rocks just happened to be in the same line of sight from her vantage point of view – yes, aesthetically pleasant, but not exactly Nobel Prize material.

Pleased with their indifference toward her current activities, Vicky startled scribbling. She had become fascinated with warding, as of late – her arithmancy was already at a level that allowed for designing and improving her own spells. Vicky sketched the runes they had used to make Hermione's house blend into its surroundings, much like a notice-me-not placed on the magic itself. If she moved them around,  _sowulo_  in the place of  _thurisaz_ ,  _uruz_  instead of  _gebo_ …Her quill bobbed up and down, scratching the dry parchment in sharp strokes, faster as she started working on the arithmantic equations.

"Garcia," Hermione asked, not looking up from her own reading. "Have you finished the Astronomy essay?"

"Still working on it," she lied, trying to formulate the correct change of basis matrix.

"You  _never_  write that fast unless it's Arithmancy," Hermione pointed out, suspicious.

Garcia cursed under her breath. "Cut me some slack," she asked, "Charity's annoying enough."

"You've got to hand it in next friday," she reminded her. As if she needed to feel any  _guiltier_.

"I'm working on an improvement on  _your_  wards, you know." She knew that would make Hermione feel bad, and was not above using it to her advantage.

Hermione's head turned so fast she feared her neck would snap. "Oh," she said, taken aback. Vicky felt vindicated.

"You're using your weird theories again?" she asked, crawling on the grass to get closer.

"No," she answered, still writing, "the classic stuff."

Hermione sat by her side and looked at her numbers. Vicky was focused – Arithmancy tended to make her withdraw from her surroundings – but Hermione's spells were strong enough to break her concentration. She raised her head as she felt them settle and could see the shimmering of layered privacy wards all around them. Her first reaction was to be impressed; that was one showy display of power. The second, though, was unbearable curiosity.

"What is it?" she asked Hermione. Nobody casted  _that_  to chat about the weather.

"I've just got something to test against your Grand Theory of Equivalence." Hermione said the name almost mockingly, but Vicky was unbothered – one day it would be in every magical theory book in the world, and then who would laugh?

Her. It would be her.

"Really?" She raised a brow, knowing to take that as provocation. However, her theory had never failed her; it was solid. Hermione would regret her lack of faith yet again.

"Now,  _hypothetically_ ," she emphasized, which universally meant there was nothing hypothetical about what would come next, "say two people cut each other deep enough to draw blood. And, then, for whatever reason, ingest each other's blood. What do you think would happen?"

"Just that?" she asked, confused. The question was, why would  _anything_  happen?

"Think of it as a sort of ritual," Hermione suggested.

Vicky did not answer immediately, and when she did she was very unsure of her words.

"I guess the blood can act as the  _means_  through which one can cast magic? Like, instead of using the core of your wand – which in the end contains a shred of a magical creature – you use  _yourself_  as the magical creature?"

Hermione's eyes shone at her answer, and she supposed she was on the right track.

" _As the wand is to any wizard_ ," Hermione whispered. She had the feeling she was quoting something; she did have a very specific  _quoting voice_. "Yes – something like that. That must be why blood magic works."

Vicky gasped, and then chastised herself for not having made the connection earlier. She had only heard of blood magic once in her life; in a small shop hidden in plain sight in Carrer Tallers, within the core of Barcelona. The hag that sat behind the counter had screamed the words in her face when she had asked too many a question about a book she had not been allowed to purchase.

Now, who liked being told what  _not_  to read about?

"So blood can be used to cast magic efficiently – or more than without any medium, as would be the case of wandless magic – but what is the purpose of this specific ritual? Ingesting another's blood?" Vicky asked, and Hermione did not answer. "Could it maybe… Create a sort of  _link_ , between two people?" she theorized. "A part of you is within the other, after all – Are you looking to use that as an improvement for our bracelets?" They had spoken of improving the system, after all.

"Ah –" Hermione was surprised; she could see it. "That's some good thinking, it hadn't occurred to me to look at it this way."

Well, it was no surprise she had gotten it wrong. If she could write it down and formulate the exchange as equations… Though, how to describe blood magic, she did not know. She would have to devise a way first, and that would complicate things.

"What does it do, then? Do you know?"

Hermione nodded, confirming Vicky's suspicions.

"It increases the intensity of your casting – like multiplying your magic ten-fold."

That was not the answer she expected.

" _What_?" she scoffed. "Forget about  _my_  theory, Minnie. This doesn't hold up against bloody energy conservation!" She shook her head. "I don't know where you read this bullshite, but come on – Maurice's law of magical equilibrium ring a bell?"

Hermione looked  _pleased_  by her reaction, which stopped her ranting short. Her heartrate increased, her eyes widened, her hands started to sweat. She knew – she somehow, definetly knew – what Hermione's reaction meant.

"Impossible," she whispered. "You've tried?" she asked her. "It works, just like that?"

Hermione nodded.

"But – how? And not just that, I mean – Why aren't we  _taught_  that? How come that's not known?" A sudden thought struck her dumb, then, straight into her innermost fears. "Is it?" she asked. "Known, I mean. Does everybody else know? Is it one of these stupidly obvious things everybody who's been raised into magic knows?"

"No, no," Hermione stopped her before she got too worked up. "Nobody knows, me and Pansy found out by accident." She bit on her lower lip and hesitated, "I found it strange, too, that nobody would have stumbled upon it before… But I suppose it's just this general aversion to blood magic."

"Is it considered dark?" she instinctively whispered, despite Hermione's privacy spells rendering the action unnecessary.

Hermione nodded. That explained quite a lot, yes, though she still found it silly. Taking a swig of someone else's blood was a bit yucky, but unless they were sick, she failed to see how it could be dangerous.

"But how can it violate energy conservation?" she insisted. It was like a physicist claiming the existence of a perpetual motion machine; you just  _could not_  break the first law of thermodynamics.

"I really don't know," Hermione answered, way less bothered than she ought to be. "Do you think you could explain it? With your theory?"

Vicky ignored the smug smile tugging at Hermione's lips, which was pure Pansy, and took a clean sheet of parchment. The stupid Astronomy homework could wait, she needed to understand this first.

* * *

Pansy was unconvinced. She could admit, not matter how it irked her, that Transfigurations was not her strongest subject. Hermione could probably achieve a permanent transfiguration with far more ease than herself, but it would not solve the problem – after all, what Hermione had in talent she certainly lacked in  _taste_.

"I'll make one, too," Lovegood cheerfully declared.

Pansy frowned. She could admit her settee looked slightly unusual – the feet were a bit crooked, and the colour slightly reminded of the grey of faded, worn, black clothes. But at least it rose with a certain elegance, and the upholstery was rich velvet and comfortable, thick cushions. A pity it still bore a certain resemblance to the fallen rocks she had used to make it.

However, as much as her work could use some improvement, she trusted Lovegood's fashion sense even less than Hermione's.

"I think perhaps you could try for a table and chairs?" she suggested. Those would be harder to botch, hopefully. How unfashionable could a plain, wooden chair be? "We'll need those to study."

Lovegood nodded and moved to another of the six, large semidomes that flanked the sides of the Chamber of Secrets. Pansy focused again and, thanks to her recently acquired magical prowess, managed an improved twin to her first creation. She giggled like a silly girl, giddy with happiness. Her power was not dimming, the intense urges had not returned – except for a faint, wistful nostalgia; the desire to experience such intense pleasure again – and now she could go ahead and build a beautiful sitting room from waste and debris in the expanse of one afternoon.

She had a plan in mind: elegant lines, dark woods, black velvet. They could add a hint of colour with the complements, vibrant cushions, coloured silks, patterned drapes… Like the Slytherin Common Room, but a touch cosier.

"Pansy," Hermione called her from a corner closer to the entrance. "Help me a bit here."

Pansy crossed the room. Ample as it was, they had opted to split it in sections. Hermione had – sadly – refused to have the couches placed at the feet of Slytherin's statue, purely out of contempt. It was a case of absurd Gryffindor pride, for that was obviously the ideal placement: elevated, wide, with the best possible view of the entrance. Pansy knew she could sprawl there, right at the centre, and look like a bloody  _Queen_.

Too bad they were a team. As she had heard Mike say once, after the speech of one distasteful muggle politician,  _too much democracy._

The area nearest to the entrance had been furnished with shelves about as tall as themselves – no use going higher when they had more walls than they could possibly cover – in order to create their own library. For the moment, mother's books and Hermione's muggle literature were the whole of their collection.

"I need you to tell me what these ones are about," Hermione told her. "I can't sort them properly if I don't understand the code."

"Just put Grandmama's tomes in their own section," Pansy drawled. Really, like it mattered that much. "I'm the only one who can read them, anyway."

Hermione huffed. " _Pansy_ ," she started in her prim, lecturing tone, "if we need to research a particular topic, we must know what books deal with it. Even if we then have to ask you to read them."

Pansy rolled her eyes. "You're insufferable," she told her, without heat. Hermione made a rude gesture with her hand, but knew Pansy would do what she asked. She did have a point; something that happened way too often.

"Is Luna taking care of the study room?" Hermione asked.

Pansy nodded, trying to focus enough to determine whether the book she was holding was about Potions or Occlumency. Without previous clue, breaking the code from the first page was the hardest part.

"We've the Library here, by the entrance. Then on the left side, first semidome will be the studying area, and the last one a resting area – like a Common Room. You want to take the middle one for your Arithmancy thing?"

"Yes, I'll set blackboards on those walls," Hermione said. "Garcia will appreciate a workspace. We'll take ideas for the right side when we've got everyone down here."

Pansy nodded and placed the book in the Occlumency section. She picked the next one, and made faster work with it – that one was an actual Herbology text.

"So, still Tracey and Garcia," Pansy checked. She remained unconvinced about the second one, but Hermione had testily asked her if  _she_  was able to maintain an intelligent conversation about the possible sixth exception to Gamp's law, and Pansy had been forced to back down.

"Yes," Hermione confirmed, barely paying attention. "I've spoken to her once already. Won't take long to convince her to try."

"Tracey won't, either. The way she looks at Murton, I think she'd kill her just for the pleasure of it; never mind the ritual," she said, glancing at Hermione. As expected, she fidgeted, uncomfortable with talk of murder. "What about Garcia? How will she take to  _that_  idea?"

Hermine sighed. "I'm not sure," she confessed. "I mean – anyone would be  _repulsed_  by the thought."

"Any Hufflepuff, I'm sure." Pansy had no doubt that some people were better off dead; and if others were not up to the job, well, her manicure could wait. She would dirty her own hands if necessary.

"Any decent human being," Hermione prissily corrected. "I swear, Pansy, have you no sense of morality?"

"Of course I do." She turned up her nose high and place yet another book on the shelves. "Some things are  _wrong_ ," she agreed, "like sexual abuse, or making fun of the mentally handicapped." She paused and eyed Hermione critically, "Or this ugly beaded bag that looks like something a Weasley wouldn't wear in the privacy of her own, ratty home."

Hermione picked her hideous bag from the floor and made a show of wearing it, sticking her tongue out to her rather rudely. Pansy ignored her gracefully – of course, she needed not lower herself to her level – and picked another book.

"My morals are just less rigid than your absurdly stiff set of principles.  _You shall not kill_ ," she said in a low, serious voice. "What are you, religious?"

"Oh, Gods," Hermione complained. "Did dad teach you about the ten commandments?"

"I couldn't possibly follow the movie without knowing that," Pansy admitted. She made an effort to remember the plot, and then said, "Mike said there's always religious movies aired around Christmas."

See that? Had she not sounded just like she knew what she was talking about? Not a single word wrong.

Hermione nodded. "The point is," she dropped the topic, "Garcia might be a bit squeamish about the whole murder thing, yes," she said, her tone dripping sarcasm.

"So don't tell her," Pansy suggested.

"What?" Hermione scoffed. "And when the time comes to stab someone, what do I say? Oh, sorry, forgot the tiny, little, insignificant detail that we'll go crazy unless we kill the guy."

Pansy rolled her eyes at the show of dramatics.

"At that point she'll be crazy already," she reminded her. "She'll  _need_  to do it, just like it happened to us."

"Pansy!" Hermione's hands shot up, and she waved them with exasperation. She looked, as usual, unreasonably scandalized. "You want me to  _lie_  to her and  _manipulate_  her into killing someone?"

"I want you to do whatever it takes for us to  _survive_ ," she shot back, short and snappish. "You said it yourself, we need more people if we want to stand a chance. And if you're right and Garcia knows what she's doing with her numbers, then we need  _her_."

"She's our  _friend_ , Pansy," she said. "We can't do this to her."

Pansy personally thought Garcia would be her friend when, and only when, they faced exactly in the same direction. She thought it better not to mention this to Hermione – her idealized version of the world did not need another crack.

"If you truly want to help her, you'll drag her down here," she just said. "Garcia might not live through what's coming otherwise."

* * *

"It's just that –" Tonks hesitated, "it's  _stupid_."

Charity shook her head. "If it's got you feeling like this, then it's not stupid." She saw Tonks was ready to reaffirm her statement, and interrupted. "It's not stupid to  _you_. Never mind what others could think; something that can crush you cannot be stupid, by definition."

Tonks let her back fall against the stone and sighed. "But I  _feel_  stupid," she protested.

"You feel  _guilty_ ," Charity corrected, guessing. "I feel guilty too, when I hate myself. As if I should be stronger, be wiser. As if there's shame in letting such things bring me down."

Tonks frowned, thinking. Their conversations usually went like that, with plenty of pauses for introspection. Charity had intended to help Tonks, but she had to admit the interaction was an anchor of sorts, for her too. Some things you could only tell to people who had lived through them.

"I don't think your worries are stupid," Tonks told her. "I think your step-mother is a right berk."

Charity's lips twisted. "It's not like she does it on purpose," she defended her. "She's just naturally aggravating." And she had a gift to hit right where her insecurities laid. "I don't think it's her fault, either – the lack of confidence was always there."

"She sure doesn't help," Tonks huffed, angry on her behalf. "For the record, I don't think you're plain," she assured her. "You look great."

She sounded honest, too. Charity was uncomfortable with praise she could not believe.

"So, I told you my silly worries," she changed the topic. "You can tell me yours."

Tonks sighed again, and her hands moved toward the twigs growing between her feet.

"It's a man," she confessed in a tiny voice, half insecurity and half self-loathing.

"You're in love?" Charity asked quietly. It could be something else, after all.

Tonks nodded.

"And it's not going well," she guessed more than asked.

"No," Tonks snorted, "not  _well_. He's just – he's such a –" she grunted in frustration, unable to finish the sentence.

Charity was momentarily afraid. "Did he hurt you?"

"No!" she quickly corrected her. "He'd  _never_  hurt me," she practically snarled.

"Oh – okay."

"Ah, sorry," Tonks apologized, her hair going slightly red in her shame. It looked better than the usual, dead grey. "Sensitive topic… He's convinced he's too dangerous for me."

"Wait, so – does he like you back? That sounds like –"  _Like an excuse_ , she thought, but she did not dare say it.

"I wish I knew," Tonks sighed and dropped her head against the stone. "It's always just that he's too poor, and he's too old, and he's too dangerous," she complained. "He's never just given me a 'No, I don't like you.' That'd be easier to take. The way he talks, though, he makes me feel like this silly little girl whose crush he's humouring."

"So you can't tell," Charity said, understanding the problem. "He might not like you and just be trying to let you down gently… Or maybe he does like you, and truly thinks he's not good enough."

"Exactly," Tonks said excitedly, her cheeks flushed with more colour than she had ever seen in them.

"Can you ask him outright? Would he lie?"

"He might," she admitted. It made sense, if the man thought she was better off without him. "But it's not like I can ask, anyway. Oh – no, it's not that I don't dare," she corrected her, "He's uncommunicable at the moment. That's why I'm up to Dumbledore's so often," she confessed, cheeks reddening. "He's the only one who receives news from him."

Charity stifled a harsh gasp. Whatever the man was doing, she was now certain it had to do with the war against You-Know-Who. He must be acting as an undercover informant. Charity suddenly felt like a character in one of her step-mother's raunchy novels – the classic tragic love story, the heroine worrying back home and the hero out there risking his neck.

She was, of course, relegated to the role of a mere  _confidante_. How fitting; the curse of her life.

* * *

The full sight of Lovegood's work hit her straight in the face. She had managed to transfigure a great deal of furniture in the past three days, and all of it looked both balanced and solid – the girl was better than herself. Pansy's job was a bit more refined, but she had one extra year of experience and a blood-magic boost to account for. Yes, she took no issue with the steadiness of Lovegood's work.

The most impressive feat was, perhaps, that she had made seven chairs, a very large, wooden table, two rugs large enough to cover the whole floor – and those chambers were  _huge_  – and two weird things that looked like potato sacks. And, despite the large quantity of objects, every single one of them was of a colour so intense that it managed to horribly clash with  _all_  the rest. In an overall effect, so many different shades put together almost looked good.

 _Almost_  being the key word.

"Lovegood," she said calmly, taking a deep breath. "This is absolutely  _hideous_."

Lovegood stared at her with her pale, too large eyes in silence. Then, she turned to her design and pursed her lips. She tilted her head to one side, then to the other, then narrowed her eyes intensely and bent her head forward.

"I don't see how," she finally concluded.

"Oh – how cheerful!" Hermione exclaimed, pleased, coming to a halt behind them.

Pansy despaired.

* * *

Severus pushed into Crabbe's mind after barely a minute of trying to find his way through. The boy's brain was a mess of disorganized thoughts; like towers and towers of piled-up, unsorted paperwork. Navigating through it, he feared they would come crumbling down on him. Luckily, there was a more straightforward way – and if it broke the dunderhead's mind a bit, well, perhaps nobody would even  _notice_  afterwards.

He forced his way in, brought the paper down with him, stepped on each useless bit and went for the one memory he cared about – the one of the day Draco died.

He saw them. The three of them, Draco and his goons, following him blindly without even knowing why. They did not question him beyond a slight, lazy grunt of annoyance at having to get up from the couches. Then, they transformed – but Severus knew that already, Albus had seen it too. Too little girls followed Draco up flights and flights of stairs, reaching the seventh floor. They turned a corner, then another, and then the world shifted.

To the untrained eye, it might have seemed an unimportant detail – a shimmer of the light, a blurred silhouette, a shifting of the background. Severus, however, was an expert on the arts of the mind – Draco's voice faltered as he turned on them. His arm was out of focus as he tried to hex Goyle. The world blurred as they turned to run away.

Crabbe's memory had been  _altered._

Severus cursed.

The oaf was  _innocent_.

Late as it was for regrets, Severus took the next step with uncharacteristic gentleness. He carefully peeled away the rough layer of confusion – whomever had messed with Crabbe had casted an unrefined, simple  _obliviate_  – and dug for the memories hiding underneath. The cover broke, shattered at the smallest of pressures, and the truth came flowing out.

They – the three of them, Crabbe, Goyle and Draco – had been attacked from behind. A stunner flew past Goyle's head, but when Crabbe turned their attacker had already casted a second one, and only a flash of a hand was seen quickly retreat behind the corner. Crabbe yelped in his girlish, borrowed voice and Goyle fumbled with his wand. Draco – how quick! Severus was proud – was already firing spells in the direction of their attacker.

However, yet another spell came from  _behind_  – it had clearly been an ambush. Draco fell, stunned, to the ground. Crabbe had seen it coming, he had been looking in the direction of the caster. Only, Crabbe gasped in surprise, because there was no one there; just a vast, long, empty corridor. The red light had appeared from thin air, conjured out of nothingness.

Severus' chest beat strongly, painfully, as his brain screamed, ' _No. No – It can't be._ '

Crabbe attacked. His first curse – one so dark the fool should have never attempted it within the school wards – connected with a shield, and there was a sound of impact. Whomever stood there, invisible –  _invisible_! – had collided with something. Crabbe's second spell met the wall straight on and then everything went black.

Not in Severus mind, however.

His thoughts were running wild. His memories were awaking, buried as they usually laid, under layers and layers of careful, controlled, perfect Occlumency. They broke out like water out of a too-full dam, impacting him fully.

Two boys laughing and hiding in the shadows.

Hexes and hexes and more hexes.

Laughs.

And laughs and more laughs.

A curse, casted from somewhere  _behind his back_.

Casted by someone  _invisible_  – a cowardly attack.

A rich, spoiled brat who knew he was untouchable.

Severus saw red.

 _Potter_.

* * *

Pansy felt her soul drop to her feet.

She had lost the Battle of the Study Room – two against one was universally unfair – even though no single chair matched with another neither in shape, colour nor material. Even though those awful potato sacks –  _bean bags_ , Hermione had called them as she sat on one and it deformed into a misshapen, ugly lump – gave her nightmares. Even though exactly half of the floor was covered in a woollen, plain blue rug and the other half in a Persian red and gold carpet. Even though the lights were squared, wooden-framed, Japanese style with rainbows painted on them.

She had lost, and she accepted it.

However, the Common Room was  _hers_. That, she would fight for with her life.

"Lovegood!" Pansy called, horrified. "Is  _my_  floor sparkling?"

* * *

The issue of Vincent Crabbe's removal from the school was dealt with much less publicly than that of Draco Malfoy. While Snape had treated Draco's disappearance as a flight – from Hogwarts or from Death Eaters, nobody yet knew – Crabbe's situation was being hushed in earnest. However, or perhaps precisely because of that, it generated much more interest.

The Slytherin Common Room, divided as always, was filled with whispers. Two sixth-years, both known sympathizers of the cause, gone in a span of a few months – at the very least, suspicious. In Theo's personal opinion, fucking frightening.

"The Janus Thickey Ward," he heard Farley tell Montague. "Eunice Cattermole told Corner's mother – she works there, y'see. Mind partly wiped, they say. Nobody knows how much he'll recover."

The rumour mill worked faster than any Professor could procure a decent explanation for why one of his roommates had never come back after Care of Magical Creatures. Theo took offence at that – at least him, Blaise and Goyle deserved answers. Someone could take pity on the fact that they had started the year as five and now stood as only three.

"Parkinson, who else?" whispered Flora Carrow to Adelaide Murton. She looked rather pleased with herself, which made Theo think she must like Pansy quite a bit more than she usually let on. "Malfoy and Crabbe – Think it can be a coincidence?"

Murton, usually the most vocal against Pansy, was looking rather wan. "How could she?" she asked back.

"Same way all these little trinkets in the room float around when she arrives," Hestia said, not looking up from her Arithmancy book. "I'd say her magic has improved quite a bit."

"Parlour tricks and flashy lights," Murton dismissed, but her pallor never abated.

Theo walked past them as he went out of the Common Room, and missed whatever answer the Carrow twins might have given back. Setting aside the unlikeliness of Pansy's involvement, the rumours did have a point – Theo would eat his wand if the two incidents were unrelated. And since he knew for certain Crabbe's brain had been turned into mushy peas, he was left with the conclusion that something  _bad_  had happened to Draco.

Oh, he had suspected it before – but Draco having left on his own free will had remained a possibility. Now, he was convinced his childhood friend had met an ill fate.

A passing fourth-year Gryffindor glared at him and he sneered back. Those were not good times to roam around corridors alone. He wished he could have taken Blaise with him – he did not fancy becoming the third missing Slytherin sixth-year of the term. Too bad his only remaining friend had neglected to finish his Astronomy essay on time, and was now rushing it last minute style.

He was glad to finally reach Slughorn's Office – and who would have ever guessed the day would come? The man could bore a ghost to death.

He certainly had not expected to find Granger inside.

"Ah, Mr Nott – Just one moment," Slughorn said while he searched for  _something_  inside his private potions laboratory. "I need a second to find Miss Granger's book and I'm with you."

And thus Theo found himself waiting in front of Slughorn's desk in the sole company of Hermione Granger. She glanced at him and nodded in acknowledgement of his presence. The formality, however, was a tad broken by the soft curling of her lips. Theo's ears went red as Granger was overcome by a sudden, unexplainable urge to cough.

Merlin's balls, she would  _never_  let him live it down. He could have sworn she giggled every damned time they crossed paths.

Fucking Blaise and his fucking problems. He should have known not to take him seriously – not when it came to  _women_. The guy was paranoid – not that Theo blamed him, with a mother like that – and could certainly not be trusted to remain reasonable. Ridiculous as the whole situation was, if at least Granger had remained unaware of their blunder… But, no. She had been overcome by the sudden need to –

Oh fuck.

Oh fucking bloody fuck.

By the sudden need to secretly research the Mind Arts in the dead of the night.

And a week later, Vincent Crabbe's mind had been torn apart.

The Carrow twins might have a point after all.

* * *

"Would you two do something useful for once, instead of discussing aesthetics?" Hermione asked in the slightly hysteric edge her voice took when she was overcome by frustration.

"Lighting is important," Pansy drawled. "How else will you read and write and do the homework you love so much?"

"You're discussing what goes  _around_  lighting, Pansy."

"We've agreed," Lovegood added happily, looking incredibly pleased with herself. "Look – they're pretty."

She showed Hermione their creation. For once, Lovegood had had a good idea. Yellow balls of yarn emptied on the inside, leaving purely a thin layer of thread, and with small – only slightly warm – flames inside. Once they let them float around the Common Room, they would make a truly inviting light.

"Very pretty," Hermione humoured her. "Stunning – Enthralling, even," she added drily. "Now go make me a potions lab in the dome in front of the study room," she ordered, and she left.

"Must be a case of Eye-thwarting earwigs," Lovegood said. "Tiny insects, they are – they get in your eyes and mess with perception," she explained.

"Must be," Pansy agreed.

* * *

Tracey and Pansy walked back to the Common Room before heading to Astronomy. Tracey personally disliked the class – not because of Professor Sinistra, who was both competent and nice, nor because the subject was uninteresting; but rather because of the very small number of students taking the elective. That usually implied spending more time than she cared about closer to Blaise than any sane ex-girlfriend would appreciate.

If the bastard even considered her, in all of her dirty glory, an ex-girlfriend. Perhaps she just was the halfblood chick he used to fuck. Correction –  _one_  of the halfblood chicks he used to fuck.

She had made up her mind, though. If Professor Sinistra made them share a telescope again – fuck, the most awkward night of her  _life_  – she would bash it on his head and push him down the Astronomy tower. All splattered on the ground, Tracey would like to see how pretty the bastard –

"Look, Burke," a voice hidden behind a corner interrupted her ranting. "The half-blood's trying to fight back."

Tracey and Pansy shared a worried glance and immediately unsheathed their wands. Blishwick's voice was the most nasally annoying little whinging Tracey had ever heard – they would recognize it anywhere.

"I swear, if this little shit sends one of our kids to the infirmary again I will  _obliterate_  him," Pansy snarled, walking ahead in firm strides.

"I don't need to," answered another voice. Graham Pritchard, she thought; another third-year. "What d'you think will happen to you if I'm hurt, huh?" Pritchard laughed, and both she and Pansy stopped, perplexed. "Think it's a coincidence, that people pissing Pansy off keep on  _disappearing_?"

"What're you talking about?" asked Burke, a mean little, ratty kid who had more viciousness than sense.

"Malfoy left," Blishwick said. "Didn't you listen to Snape?"

"Yeah – And Crabbe's just sick," Burke agreed.

"Sick in the  _head_ ," Pritchard told them. "My aunt says he's just been placed in the Janus Thickey Ward. Can't even string two words together – all's coming out of his mouth now's spit."

The other two went silent for a couple of seconds, and then Burke said, "You saying Parkinson did that?" Tracey could tell he had tried for bravado, but his voice had come out too weak and shaky.

"I'm saying she and Malfoy had a big fall-out, and now he's nowhere to be seen. Crabbe's been trying her patience too long, and now – you see? Gone, too. Wanna bet who's next, Blishwick? I reckon it's between you and Goyle."

Burke and Blishwick did not have a good comeback for that threat, most likely because they feared it might not be an empty one. They threw an easy insult and, if Pritchard's gasp was any indication, shoved the kid as they scrammed.

Tracey glanced at Pansy, who had eavesdropped on the conversation with eager curiosity. She had to admit, Pritchard had a point. Pansy's enemies had a suspicious tendency to drop out of sight – more slowly than Tracey would have liked, but well, beggars and choosers, right?

Pansy glanced right back at her, and her lips twisted into a mean smirk. Tracey's heart beat faster.

"So? Crabbe?" Tracey asked in a hushed tone.

"No," Pansy answered, " _not_   _Crabbe_."

Beautiful, the emphasis on his name – it must mean:  _yes_  Draco. Tracey could have kissed Pansy's smug lips. Hell – she could have gone down on her knees.

"Pansy –"

"Say," she interrupted, "would you like to know a little secret?"

Tracey almost could not believe her ears. Months of trying to dig it, of subtly pressing Pansy, of looking for a crack in her imperturbable façade – because she just  _knew_  there was something. Pansy and Hermione were getting stronger. They were taking up a stance. They were planning a  _coup_.

And now Tracey was too.

She laughed, joyous and glad and relieved. It did not come out a pretty laugh.

"Fucking finally!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like how people are reaching some (partly) correct conclusions from completely wrong clues.
> 
> Thank you all for your support until now, I've been receiving nice comments that truly cheer me up and motivate me through my stress. I'm glad I'm still able to find time to write, but bear in mind I might go missing for a couple months any time.


End file.
